THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 


ByJ.M.  SYNGE 


B    3    3E1    777 


THE  WELL  OF 
THE    SAINTS 


By  the  Same  Writer 

THE  ARAN  ISLANDS 

Illustrated  by 
Jack  B.  Yeats 

THE  PLAYBOY  OF  THE  WESTERN  WORLD 

IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  GLEN 

RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

DEIRDRE  OF  THE  SORROWS 

KERRY  AND  WICKLOW 

POEMS  AND  TRANSLATIONS 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 
By  J.  M.  SYNGE 


JOHN  W.  LUCE   &  COMPANY 

BOSTON     ::::::::::      1911 


Copyright  1905 
By  J.   M.    Synge. 


)S,K' 


SCENE 

Some  lonely  mountainous  district 
in  the  east  of  Ireland  one  or  more 
centuries  ago. 


A   T"  <^*  f***  »»•    - , 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  was  first  pro- 
duced in  the  Abbey  Theatre  in  February,  1905, 
by  the  Irish  National  Theatre  Society,  under 
the  direction  of  W.  G.  Fay,  and  with  the 
following  cast. 


Martin  Doul 
Mary  Doul 
Timmy 
Molly  Byrne 
Bride 

Mat  Simon 
The  Saint 


W.  G.  Fay 

Emma  Vernon 

George  Roberts 

Sara  Allgood 

Maire  Nic  Shiubhlaigh 

P.  Mac  Shiubhlaigh 

F.  J.  Fay 


Other  Girls  and  Men 


PERSONS  IN  THE  PLAY 

Martin  Doul,  weather-beaten,  blind  beggar 

Mary  Doul^  his  Wife,  weather-beaten,  ugly 
woman,  blind  also,  nearly  fifty 

TiMMY_,    a   middle-aged,   almost   elderly,    but 
vigorous  smith 

Molly  Byrne,  fine-looking  girl  with  fair  hair 

Bride,  another  handsome  girl 

Mat  Simon 

The  Saint,  a  wandering  Friar 

Other  Girls  and  Men 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 


ACT  I 


Roadside  with  big  stones,  etc.,  on  the  right; 
lozv  loose  wall  at  back  with  gap  near  centre; 
at  left,  ruined  doorway  of  church  with  bushes 
beside  it.  Martin  Doul  and  Mary  Doul  grope 
in  on  left  and  pass  over  to  stones  on  right, 
where  they  sit. 

MARY  DOUL.  What  place  are  we  now, 
Martin  Doul? 

MARTIN  DOUL.     Passing  the  gap. 

MARY  DOUL  —  raising  her  head.  —  The 
length  of  that!  Well,  the  sun's  getting  warm 
this  day  if  it's  late  autumn  itself. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  putting  out  his  hands 
in  sun.  —  What  way  wouldn't  it  be  warm  and 
it  getting  high  up  in  the  south?  You  were 
that  length  plaiting  your  yellow  hair  you  have 
the  morning  lost  on  us,  and  the  people  are 
after  passing  to  the  fair  of  Clash. 

MARY  DOUL.  It  isn't  going  to  the  fan:, 
the  time  they  do  be  driving  their  cattle  and 
they  with  a  litter  of  pigs  maybe  squealing  in 
their  carts,  they'd  give  us  a  thing  at  all.     (She 


l6 '  '  '    \1: H-E  Well  of  the  Saints 

sits  down.)  It's  well  you  know  that,  but  you 
must  be  talking. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — sitting  down  beside 
her  and  beginning  to  shred  rushes  she  gives 
him. —  If  I  didn't  talk  I'd  be  destroyed  in  a 
short  while  listening  to  the  clack  you  do  be 
making,  for  you've  a  queer  cracked  voice,  the 
Lord  have  mercy  on  you,  if  it's  fine  to  look  on 
you  are  itself. 

MARY  DOUL.  Who  wouldn't  have  a 
cracked  voice  sitting  out  all  the  year  in  the 
rain  falling?  It's  a  bad  life  for  the  voice, 
Martin  Doul,  though  I've  heard  tell  there 
isn't  anything  like  the  wet  south  wind  does 
be  blowing  upon  us  for  keeping  a  white 
beautiful  skin  —  the  like  of  my  skin  —  on 
your  neck  and  on  your  brows,  and  there  isn't 
anything  at  all  like  a  fine  skin  for  putting 
splendour  on  a  woman. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  teasingly,  but  with 
good  humour. —  I  do  be  thinking  odd  times  we 
don't  know  rightly  what  way  you  have  your 
splendour,  or  asking  myself,  maybe,  if  you 
have  it  at  all,  for  the  time  I  was  a  young  lad, 
and  had  fine  sight,  it  was  the  ones  with  sweet 
voices  were  the  best  in  face. 

MARY  DOUL.  Let  you  not  be  making 
the    like    of    that    talk    when    vou've    heard 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  17 

Timmy  the  smith,  and  Mat  Simon,  and  Patch 
Ruadh,  and  a  power  besides  saying  fine 
things  of  my  face,  and  you  know  rightly  it 
was  "  the  beautiful  dark  woman  "  they  did 
call  me  in  Ballinatone. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — a^  before.— U  it  was 
itself  I  heard  Molly  Byrne  saying  at  the  fall 
of  night  it  was  little  more  than  a  fright  you 
were. 

MARY  DOUL  —  sharply.—  She  was  jeal- 
ous, God  forgive  her,  because  Timmy  the 
smith  was  after  praising  my  hair 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  zvith  mock  irony. — 
Jealous ! 

MARY  DOUL.  Ay,  jealous,  Martin 
Doul;  and  if  she  wasn't  itself,  the  young  and 
silly  do  be  always  making  game  of  them  that's 
dark,  and  they'd  think  it  a  fine  thing  if  they 
had  us  deceived,  the  way  we  wouldn't  know 
we  were  so  fine-looking  at  all. 

[She  puts  her  hand  to  her  face  with  a 
complacent  gesture. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — a  little  plaintively.— 
I  do  be  thinking  in  the  long  nights  it'd  be  a 
grand  thing  if  we  could  see  ourselves  for  one 
hour,  or  a  minute  itself,  the  way  we'd  know 
surely  we  were  the  finest  man  and  the  finest 
woman  of  the  seven  counties  of  the  east  — 


i8  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

(bitterly)  and  then  the  seeing  rabble  below 
might  be  destroying  their  souls  telling  bad 
lies,  and  we'd  never  heed  a  thing  they'd  say. 
MARY  DOUL.  If  you  weren't  a  big  fool 
you  wouldn't  heed  them  this  hour,  Martin 
Doul,  for  they're  a  bad  lot  those  that  have 
their  sight,  and  they  do  have  great  joy,  the 
time  they  do  be  seeing  a  grand  thing,  to  let 
on  they  don't  see  it  at  all,  and  to  be  telling 
fool's  lies,  the  like  of  what  ]\Iolly  Byrne  was 
telling  to  yourself. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  If  it's  lies  she  does  be 
telling  she's  a  sweet,  beautiful  voice  you'd 
never  tire  to  be  hearing,  if  it  was  only  the 
pig  she'd  be  calling,  or  crying  out  in  the  long 
grass,  maybe,  after  her  hens.  (Speaking 
pensively.)  It  should  be  a  fine,  soft,  rounded 
woman,  I'm  thinking,  would  have  a  voice  the 
like  of  that. 

MARY  DOUL  —  sharply  again,  scandal- 
ized.—  Let  you  not  be  minding  if  it's  flat  or 
rounded  she  is;  for  she's  a  flighty,  foolish 
woman,  you'll  hear  when  you're  off  a  long 
way,  and  she  making  a  great  noise  and  laugh- 
ing at  the  well. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Isn't  laughing  a  nice 
thing  the  time  a  woman's  young? 

MARY  J:>0\51^  — bitterly.  — A  nice  thing 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  19 

is  it?  A  nice  thing  to  hear  a  woman  making 
a  loud  braying  laugh  the  like  of  that?  Ah, 
she's  a  great  one  for  drawing  the  men,  and 
you'll  hear  Timmy  himself,  the  time  he  does 
be  sitting  in  his  forge,  getting  mighty  fussy 
if  she'll  come  walking  from  Grianan,  the  way 
you'll  hear  his  breath  going,  and  he  wringing 
his  hands. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  slightly  piqued.  —  I've 
heard  him  say  a  power  of  times  it's  nothing 
at  all  she  is  when  3^ou  see  her  at  the  side  of 
you,  and  yet  I  never  heard  any  man's  breath 
getting  uneasy  the  time  he'd  be  looking  on 
yourself. 

MARY  DOUL.  I'm  not  the  like  of  the 
girls  do  be  running  round  on  the  roads,  swing- 
ing their  legs,  and  they  with  their  necks  out 
looking  on  the  men.  .  .  .  Ah,  there's  a  power 
of  villainy  walking  the  world,  Martin  Doul, 
among  them  that  do  be  gadding  around  with 
their  gaping  eyes,  and  their  sweet  words,  and 
they  with  no  sense  in  them  at  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  sadly.—  It's  the  truth, 
ma3^be,  and  yet  I'm  told  it's  a  grand  thing  to 
see  a  young  girl  walking  the  road. 

MARY  DOUL.  You'd  be  as  bad  as  the 
rest  of  them  if  you  had  your  sight,  and  I  did 
well,  stirely,  not  to  marry  a  seeing  man  — 


20  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

it's  scores  would  have  had  me  and  welcome  — 
for  the  seeing  is  a  queer  lot,  and  you'd  never 
know  the  thing  they'd  do. 

[A   mo  1)1  en fs  pause. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — //^/^;n'«^.  —  There's 
some  one  coming  on  the  road. 

MARY  DOUL.  Let  you  put  the  pith 
away  out  of  their  sight,  or  they'll  be  picking 
it  out  with  the  spying  eyes  they  have,  and 
saying  it's  rich  we  are,  and  not  sparing  us  a 
thing  at  all. 

[They  bundle  away  the  rushes.     Timmy 
the  smith  comes  in  on  left. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  zvifh  a  begging  voice. 
—  Leave  a  bit  of  silver  for  blind  Martin,  your 
honour.  Leave  a  bit  of  silver,  or  a  penny 
copper  itself,  and  we'll  be  praying  the  Lord 
to  bless  you  and  you  going  the  way. 

TIMMY  — •  stopping  before  them.  —  And 
you  letting  on  a  while  back  you  knew  my  step ! 

[He  sits  doivn. 

MARTIN  —  nnth  his  natural  voice.  —  I 
know  it  when  Molly  Byrne's  walking  in  front, 
or  when  she's  two  perches,  maybe,  lagging 
behind;  but  it's  few  times  I've  heard  you 
w^alking  up  the  like  of  that,  as  if  you'd  met  a 
thing  wasn't  right  and  you  coming  on  the  road. 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  21 

TIMMY  —  hot  and  breathless,  zviping  his 
face.  —  You've  good  ears,  God  bless  you,  if 
you're  a  liar  itself;  for  I'm  after  walking  up 
in  great  haste  from  hearing  wonders  in  the 
fair. 

MARTIN  BOUl^  — rather  contemptuous- 
ly. —  You're  always  hearing  queer  wonderful 
things,  and  the  lot  of  them  nothing  at  all; 
but  I'm  thinking,  this  time,  it's  a  strange 
thing  surely  you'd  be  walking  up  before  the 
turn  of  day,  and  not  waiting  below  to  look 
on  them  lepping,  or  dancing,  or  playing  shows 
on  the  green  of  Clash. 

TIMMY  —  huffed.  —  I  was  coming  to  tell 
you  it's  in  this  place  there'd  be  a  bigger 
wonder  done  in  a  short  while  {Martin  Doid 
stops  working)  than  was  ever  done  on  the 
green  of  Clash,  or  the  width  of  Leinster  itself; 
but  you're  thinking,  maybe,  you're  too  cute  a 
little  fellow  to  be  minding  me  at  all. 

MARTIN  BOUL  — amused,  hut  incredu- 
lous. —  There'll  be  wonders  in  this  place,  is  it? 

TIMMY.  Here  at  the  crossing  of  the 
roads. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  T  never  heard  tell  of 
anything  to  happen  in  this  place  since  the 
night  they  killed  the  old  fellow  going  home 
with  his  gold,  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  him, 


">2  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

md  threw  down  his  corpse  into  the  bog.  Let 
them  not  be  doing  the  Hke  of  that  this  night, 
for  it's  ourselves  have  a  right  to  the  crossing 
roads,  and  we  don't  want  any  of  your  bad 
tricks,  or  your  wonders  either,  for  it's  wonder 
enough  we  are  ourselves. 

TIMMY.  If  I'd  a  mind  I'd  be  telling  you 
of  a  real  wonder  this  day,  and  the  way  you'll 
be  having  a  great  joy,  maybe,  you're  not 
thinking  on  at  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  interested. —  Are  they 
putting  up  a  still  behind  in  the  rocks?  It'd 
be  a  grand  thing  if  I'd  sup  handy  the  way  I 
wouldn't  be  destroying  myself  groping  up 
across  the  bogs  in  the  rain  falling. 

TIMMY  —  still  moodily. —  It's  not  a  still 
they're  bringing,  or  the  like  of  it  either. 

MARY  DOUL  —  persuasively,  to  Timmy. 
—  Maybe  they're  hanging  a  thief,  above  at 
the  bit  of  a  tree.  I'm  told  it's  a  great  sight 
to  see  a  man  hanging  by  his  neck;  but  what 
joy  would  that  be  to  ourselves,  and  we  not 
seeing  it  at  all  ? 

TIMMY  —  more  pleasantly. —  They're 
hanging  no  one  this  day,  Mary  Doul,  and  yet, 
with  the  help  of  God,  you'll  see  a  power 
hanged  before  you  die. 

MARY  DOUL.     Well  you've  queer  hum- 


The  VVei^l  of  the  Saints  23 

bugging  talk.  .  .  .  What  way  would  I  see  a 
power  hanged,  and  I  a  dark  woman  since  the 
seventh  year  of  my  age? 

TIMMY.  Did  ever  you  hear  tell  of  a 
place  across  a  bit  of  the  sea,  where  there  is 
an  island,  and  the  grave  of  the  four  beautiful 
saints  ? 

MARY  DOUL.  I've  heard  people  have 
walked  round  from  the  west  and  they  speak- 
ing of  that. 

TIMMY  —  impressively. —  There's  a  green 
ferny  well,  I'm  told,  behind  of  that  place,  and 
if  you  put  a  drop  of  the  w^ater  out  of  it  on 
the  eyes  of  a  blind  man,  you'll  make  him  see 
as  well  as  any  person  is  walking  the  world. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  with  excitement.  —  Is 
that  the  truth,  Timmy?  I'm  thinking  you're 
telling  a  lie. 

TIMMY  —  ^r«#/3;.  —  T  h  a  t '  s  the  truth, 
Martin  Doul,  and  you  may  believe  it  now,  for 
you're  after  believing  a  power  of  things 
weren't  as  likely  at  all. 

MARY  DOUL.  Maybe  we  could  send  us 
a  young  lad  to  bring  us  the  water.  I  could 
wash  a  naggin  bottle  in  the  morning,  and  I'm 
thinking  Patch  Ruadh  would  go  for  it,  if  we 
gave  him  a  good  drink,  and  the  bit  of  money 
we  have  hid  in  the  thatch. 


24  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

TIMMY.  It'd  be  no  good  to  be  sending  a 
sinful  man  the  like  of  ourselves,  for  I'm  told 
the  holiness  of  the  water  does  be  getting  soiled 
with  the  villainy  of  your  heart,  the  time  you'd 
be  carrying  it,  and  you  looking  round  on  the 
girls,  maybe,  or  drinking  a  small  sup  at  a  still. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — with  disappointment. 
— It'd  be  a  long  terrible  way  to  be  walking 
ourselves,  and  I'm  thinking  that's  a  wonder 
will  bring  small  joy  to  us  at  all. 

TIMMY  —  turning  on  him  impatiently. — 
What  is  it  you  want  with  your  walking?  It's 
as  deaf  as  blind  you're  growing  if  you're  not 
after  hearing  me  say  it's  in  this  place  the 
wonder  would  be  done. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  with  a  flash  of  anger. 
—  If  it  is  can't  you  open  the  big  slobbering 
mouth  you  have  and  say  what  way  it'll  be 
done,  and  not  be  making  blather  till  the  fall 
of  night. 

TIMMY  —  jumping  up. —  I'll  be  going  on 
now  (Mary  Doul  rises),  and  not  wasting  time 
talking  civil  talk  with  the  like  of  you. 

MARY  DOUL  —  standing  up,  disguising 
her  impatience. —  Let  you  come  here  to  me, 
Timmy,  and  not  be  minding  him  at  all. 
(Timmy  stops,  and  she  gropes  up  to  him  and 
takes  him   by  the  coat).     You're  not  huffy 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  25 

with  myself,  and  let  you  tell  me  the  whole 
story  and  don't  be  fooling  me  more.  ...  Is 
it  yourself  has  brought  us  the  water? 

TIMMY.     It  is  not,  surely. 

MARY  DOUL.  Then  tell  us  your  wonder, 
Timmy.  .  .  .    What  person'll  bring  it  at  all? 

TIMMY  —  r^/^n/m^.— It's  a  fine  holy 
man  will  bring  it,  a  saint  of  the  Almighty  God. 

MARY  DOUL  —  overawed. —  A  saint  is 
,it? 

TIMMY.  Ay,  a  fine  saint,  who's  going 
round  through  the  churches  of  Ireland,  with 
a  long  cloak  on  him,  and  naked  feet,  for  he's 
brought  a  sup  of  the  water  slung  at  his  side, 
and,  with  the  Hke  of  him,  any  little  drop  is 
enough  to  cure  the  dying,  or  to  make  the 
blind  see  as  clear  as  the  gray  hawks  do  be 
high  up,  on  a  still  day,  sailing  the  sky. 

MARTIN  Y^OIJ'L  — feeling  for  his  stick. 
— What  place  is  he,  Timmy?  I'll  be  walking 
to  him  now. 

TIMMY.  Let  you  stay  quiet,  Martin. 
He's  straying  around  saying  prayers  at  the 
churches  and  high  crosses,  between  this  place 
and  the  hills,  and  he  with  a  great  crowd  go- 
ing behind  —  for  it's  fine  prayers  he  does  bo 
saying,  and  fasting  with  it,  till  he's  as  thin  a 
one  of  the  empty  rushes  you  have  there  or 


20 


The  Well  of  the  Saints 


your  knee;  then  he'll  be  coming  after  to  this 
place  to  cure  the  two  of  you  —  we're  after 
telling  him  the  way  you  are  —  and  to  say  his 
prayers  in  the  church. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  turning  suddenly  to 
Mary  Doid.  —  And  we'll  be  seeing  ourselves 
this  day.  Oh,  glory  be  to  God,  is  it  true 
surely  ? 

MARY  DOUL  —  very  pleased,  to  Timmy. 
—  Maybe  I'd  have  time  to  walk  down  and 
get  the  big  shawl  I  have  below,  for  I  do  look 
my  best,  I've  heard  them  say,  when  I'm 
dressed  up  with  that  thing  on  my  head. 

TIMMY.     You'd  have  time  surely 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  listening,  —  Whisht 
now.  .  .  I  hear  people  again  coming  by  the 
stream. 

TIMMY  — looking  out  left,  puzzled.  — It's 
the  young  girls  I  left  walking  after  the  Saint. 
.  .  .  They're  coming  now  {goes  up  to  en- 
trance) carrying  things  in  their  hands,  and 
they  walking  as  easy  as  you'd  see  a  child  walk 
who'd  have  a  dozen  eggs  hid  in  her  bib. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  listening.  —  That's 
Molly  Byrne,  I'm  thinking. 

[Molly  Byrne  and  Bride  come  on  left  and 
cross  to  Martin  Doitl,  carrying  water- 
can,  Saint's  bell,  and  cloak. 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  27 

MOLLY  —  volubly. —  God  bless  you,  Mar- 
tin. I've  holy  water  here,  from  the  grave  of 
the  four  saints  of  the  west,  will  have  you 
cured  in  a  short  while  and  seeing  like  our- 
selves   

TIMMY  —  crosses  to  Molly,  interrupting 
her. —  He's  heard  that.  God  help  you.  But 
where  at  all  is  the  Saint,  and  what  way  is  he 
after  trusting  the  holy  water  with  the  likes  of 
you? 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  He  was  afeard  to  go 
a  far  way  with  the  clouds  is  coming  beyond, 
so  he's  gone  up  now  through  the  thick  woods 
to  say  a  prayer  at  the  crosses  of  Grianan,  and 
he's  coming  on  this  road  to  the  church. 

TIMMY  —  still  astonished. —  And  he's  af- 
ter leaving  the  holy  water  with  the  two  of 
you?    It's  a  wonder,  surety. 

[Comes  down  left  a  little. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  The  lads  told  him 
no  person  could  carry  them  things  through 
the  briars,  and  steep,  slippy-feeling  rocks  he'll 
be  climbing  above,  so  he  looked  round  then, 
and  gave  the  water,  and  his  big  cloak,  and  his 
bell  to  the  two  of  us,  for  young  girls,  says 
he,  are  the  cleanest  holy  people  you'd  see 
walking  the  world. 

[Mary  Doul  goes  near  seat. 


28  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

MARY  DOUL  —  sits  down,  laughing  to 
herself. —  Well,  the  Saint's  a  simple  fellow, 
and  it's  no  lie. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — leaning  forward, 
holding  out  his  hands. —  Let  you  give  me  the 
water  in  my  hand,  Molly  Byrne,  the  way 
I'll  know  you  have  it  surely. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  — giving  it  to  him.— 
Wonders  is  queer  things,  and  maybe  it'd  cure 
you,  and  you  holding  it  alone. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — looking  round.— It 
does  not,  Molly.  I'm  not  seeing  at  all.  (He 
shakes  the  can.)  There's  a  small  sup  only. 
Well,  isn't  it  a  great  wonder  the  little  trifling 
thing  would  bring  seeing  to  the  blind,  and  be 
showing  us  the  big  women  and  the  young 
girls,  and  all  the  fine  things  is  walking  the 
world. 

[He  feels  for  Mary  Doul  and  gives  her 
the  can. 

MARY  DOUL- shaking  it.—  WeW,  glory 
be  to  God 

MARTIN  DOUL  — pointing  to  Bride.— 
And  what  is  it  herself  has,  making  sounds  in 
her  hand? 

BRIDE  —  crossing  to  Martin  Dotd. —  It's 
the  Saint's  bell;  you'll  hear  him  ringing  out 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  29 

the  time  he'll  be  going  up  some  place,  to  be 
saying  his  prayers. 

[Martin  Doul  holds  out  his  hand;  she 
gives  it  to  him. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — nw^w^  it.— It's  a 
sweet,  beautiful  sound. 

MARY  DOUL.  You'd  know,  I'm  think- 
ing, by  the  little  silvery  voice  of  it,  a  fasting 
holy  man  was  after  carrying  it  a  great  way 
at  his  side. 

[Bride  crosses  a  little  right  behind  Martin 
Doul. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  unfolding  Saint's 
cloak. —  Let  you  stand  up  now,  Martin  Doul, 
till  I  put  his  big  cloak  on  you.  {Martin  Doul 
rises,  comes  forward,  centre  a  little.)  The 
way  we'd  see  how  you'd  look,  and  you  a  saint 
of  the  Almighty  God. 

MARTIN  J:>0\J1.  — standing  up,  a  little 
diffidently. —  I've  heard  the  priests  a  power 
of  times  making  great  talk  and  praises  of  the 
beauty  of  the  saints. 

[Molly  Byrne  slips  cloak  round  him. 

TIMMY  —  uneasily. —  You'd  have  a  right 
to  be  leaving  him  alone,  Molly.  What  would 
the  Saint  say  if  he  seen  you  making  game  with 
his  cloak? 


30  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  recklessly.—  How 
would  he  see  us,  and  he  saying  prayers  in  the 
wood?  {She  turns  Martin  Doul  round.) 
Isn't  that  a  fine,  holy-looking  saint,  Timmy 
the  smith?  {Laughing  foolishly.)  There's 
a  grand,  handsome  fellow,  Mary  Doul;  and 
if  you  seen  him  now  you'd  be  as  proud,  I'm 
thinking,  as  the  archangels  below,  fell  out 
with  the  Almighty  God. 

MARY  DOUL  —  with  quiet  confidence 
going  to  Martin  Doul  and  feeling  his  cloak. — 
It's  proud  we'll  be  this  day,  surely. 

[Martin  Doid  is  still  ringing. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  — ^^  Martin  Doul— 
Would  you  think  well  to  be  all  your  life 
walking  round  the  like  of  that,  Martin  Doul, 
and  you  bell-ringing  with  the  saints  of  God? 

MARY  DOUL  —  turning  on  her,  fiercely. 
—  How  would  he  be  bell-ringing  with  the 
saints  of  God  and  he  wedded  with  myself? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  It's  the  truth  she's 
saying,  and  if  bell-ringing  is  a  fine  life,  yet 
I'm  thinking,  maybe,  it's  better  I  am  wedded 
with  the  beautiful  dark  woman  of  Ballinatone. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  scornfully.—  You're 
thinking  that,  God  help  you ;  but  it's  little  you 
know  of  her  at  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL.     It's  little  surely,   and 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  31 

I'm  destroyed  this  day  waiting  to  look  upon 
her  face. 

TIMMY  —  awkzvardly. —  It's  well  you 
know  the  way  she  is;  for  the  like  of  you  do 
have  great  knowledge  in  the  feeling  of  your 
hands. 

MARTIN  DOUL  -  ^//7/  feeling  the  cloak. 
—  We  do,  maybe.  Yet  it's  little  I  know  of 
faces,  or  of  fine  beautiful  cloaks,  for  it's  few 
cloaks  I've  had  my  hand  to,  and  few  faces 
{plaintively)  ;  for  the  young  girls  is  mighty 
shy,  Timmy  the  smith  and  it  isn't  much  they 
heed  me,  though  they  do  be  saying  I'm  a 
handsome  man. 

MARY  DOUL  —  mockingly,  zvith  good 
humour. —  Isn't  it  a  queer  thing  the  voice  he 
puts  on  him,  when  you  hear  him  talking  of 
the  skinny-looking  girls,  and  he  married  with 
a  woman  he's  heard  called  the  wonder  of  the 
western  world? 

TIMMY  —  pityingly.— The  two  of  you 
will  see  a  great  wonder  this  day,  and  it's  no 
lie. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  I've  heard  tell  her 
yellow  hair,  and  her  white  skin,  and  her  big 
eyes  are  a  wonder,  surely 

BRIDE  —  who  has  looked  out  left. — 
Here's  the  Saint  cominor  from  the  salvage  of 


32  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

the  wood.  .  .  .    Strip   the   cloak   from   him, 
Molly,  or  he'll  be  seeing  it  now. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  — hastily  to  Bride.— 
Take  the  bell  and  put  yourself  by  the  stones. 
(To  Martin  Doul.)  Will  you  hold  your  head 
up  till  I  loosen  the  cloak?  {She  pulls  off  the 
cloak  and  throws  it  over  her  arm.  Then  she 
pushes  Martin  Doul  over  and  stands  him  he- 
side  Mary  Doul.)  Stand  there  now,  quiet, 
and  let  you  net  be  saying  a  word. 

[She  and  Bride  stand  a  little  on  their  left, 
demurely,  with  hell,  etc.,  in  their 
hands. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  nervously  arranging 
his  clothes. —  Will  he  mind  the  way  we  are, 
and  not  tidied  or  washed  cleanly  at  all? 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  He'll  not  see  what  way 
you  are.  .  .  .  He'd  walk  by  the  finest  woman 
in  Ireland,  I'm  thinking,  and  not  trouble  to 
raise  his  two  eyes  to  look  upon  her  face.  .  .  . 
Whisht! 

[The  Saint  comes  left,  with  crowd. 

SAINT.     Are  these  the  two  poor  people? 

TIMMY  —  officiously.—  They  are,  holy 
father;  they  do  be  always  sitting  here  at  the 
crossing  of  the  roads,  asking  a  bit  of  copper 
from  them  that  do  pass,  or  stripping  rushes 
for  lights,  and  th^v  not  mournful  at  all,  bu^ 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  33 

talking  out  straight  with  a  full  voice,  and 
making  game  with  them  that  likes  it. 

SAINT  —  to  Martin  Doul  and.  Mary  Doul. 
—  It's  a  hard  life  you've  had  not  seeing  sun 
or  moon,  or  the  holy  priests  itself  praying  to 
the  Lord,  but  it's  the  like  of  you  who  are 
brave  in  a  bad  time  will  make  a  fine  use  of 
the  gift  of  sight  the  Almighty  God  will  bring 
to  you  today.  (He  takes  his  cloak  and  puts 
it  about  him.)  It's  on  a  bare  starving  rock 
that  there's  the  grave  of  the  four  beauties  of 
God,  the  way  it's  little  wonder,  I'm  thinking, 
if  it's  with  bare  starving  people  the  water 
should  be  used.  (He  takes  the  water  and  bell 
and  slings  them  round  his  shoidders.)  So  it's 
to  the  like  of  yourselves  I  do  be  going,  who 
are  wrinkled  and  poor,  a  thing  rich  men 
would  hardly  look  at  at  all,  but  would  throw 
a  coin  to  or  a  crust  of  bread. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  moving  uneasily. — 
When  they  look  on  herself,  who  is  a  fine 
woman 

TIMMY  —  shaking  him. —  Whisht  now, 
and  be  listening  to  the  Saint. 

SAINT  —  looks  at  them  a  moment,  con- 
tinues.—  If  it's  raggy  and  dirty  you  are  itself, 
I'm  saying,  the  Almighty  God  isn't  at  all  like 
the  rich  men  of  Ireland;  and,  wnth  the  power 
of  the  water  I'm   after  bringing   in   a  little 


34 


The  Well  of  the  Saints 


curagh  into  Cashla  Bay,  He'll  have  pity  on 
you,  and  put  sight  into  your  eyes. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  taking  off  his  hat  — 
I'm  ready  now,  holy  father 

SAINT  —  taking  him  by  the  hand.  —  I'll 
cure  you  first,  and  then  I'll  come  for  your 
wife.  We'll  go  up  now  into  the  church,  for 
I  must  say  a  prayer  to  the  Lord.  (To  Mary 
Doiil,  as  he  moves  off.)  And  let  you  be  mak- 
ing your  mind  still  and  saying  praises  in  your 
heart,  for  it's  a  great  wonderful  thing  when 
the  power  of  the  Lord  of  the  world  is  brought 
down  upon  your  like. 

PEOPLE  —  pressing  after  him.  —  Come 
now  till  we  watch. 

BRIDE.     Come,  Timmy. 

SAINT  —  waving  them  hack.  —  Stay  back 
where  you  are,  for  I'm  not  wanting  a  big 
crowd  making  whispers  in  the  church.  Stay 
back  there,  I'm  saying,  and  you'd  do  well  to 
be  thinking  on  the  way  sin  has  brought  blind- 
ness to  the  world,  and  to  be  saying  a  prayer 
for  your  own  sakes  against  false  prophets  and 
heathens,  and  the  words  of  women  and  smiths, 
and  all  knowledge  that  would  soil  the  soul  or 
the  body  of  a  man. 

[People    shrink    hack.      He    goes    into 
church.     Mary  Doiil  gropes  half-way 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  35 

towards  the  door  and  kneels  near  path. 
People  form  a  group  at  right. 

TIMMY.  Isn't  it  a  fine,  beautiful  voice 
he  has,  and  he  a  fine,  brave  man  if  it  wasn't 
for  the  fasting? 

BRIDE.  Did  you  watch  him  moving  his 
hands  ? 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  It'd  be  a  fine  thing  if 
some  one  in  this  place  could  pray  the  like  of 
him,  for  I'm  thinking  the  water  from  our  own 
blessed  well  would  do  rightly  if  a  man  knew 
the  way  to  be  saying  prayers,  and  then  there'd 
be  no  call  to  be  bringing  water  from  that  wild 
place,  where,  I'm  told,  there  are  no  decent 
houses,  or  fine-looking  people  at  all. 

BRIDE  —  who  is  looking  in  at  door  from 
right. —  Look  at  the  great  trembling  Martin 
has  shaking  him,  and  he  on  his  knees. 

TIMMY  —  anxiously. —  God  help  him.  .  . 
What  will  he  be  doing  when  he  sees  his  wife 
this  day?  I'm  thinking  it  was  bad  work  we 
did  when  we  let  on  she  was  fine-looking,  and 
not  a  wrinkled,  wizened  hag  the  way  she  is. 

MAT  SIMON.  Why  would  he  be  vexed, 
and  we  after  giving  him  great  joy  and  pride, 
the  time  he  was  dark.^ 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  sitting  down  in  Mary 
DouVs   seat   and   tidying   her   hair. —  If   it's 


36  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

vexed  he  is  itself,  he'll  have  other  things  now 
to  think  on  as  well  as  his  wife ;  and  what  does 
any  man  care  for  a  wife,  when  it's  two  weeks 
or  three,  he  is  looking  on  her  face? 

MAT  SIMON.  That's  the  truth  now, 
Molly,  and  it's  more  joy  dark  Martin  got  from 
the  lies  we  told  of  that  hag  is  kneeling  by  the 
path  than  your  own  man  will  get  from  you, 
day  or  night,  and  he  living  at  your  side. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  ^^^aw//3;.— Let  you 
not  be  talking,  Mat  Simon,  for  it's  not  your- 
self will  be  my  man,  though  you'd  be  crow- 
ing and  singing  fine  songs  if  you'd  that  hope 
in  you  at  all. 

TIMMY  —  shocked,  to  Molly  Byrne. — 
Let  you  not  be  raising  your  voice  when  the 
Saint's  above  at  his  prayers. 

BRIDE  —  crying  out. —  Whisht.  .  .  . 
Whisht.  .  .  .    I'm  thinking  he's  cured. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  crying  out  in  the 
church. —  Oh,  glory  be  to  God.  .  .  . 

SAINT  —  solemnly. —  Laus    Patri    sit    et 
Filio  cum  Spiritu  Paraclito 
Qui   Suae   dono  gratiae  misertus  est  Hiber- 
niae.  .  .  . 

MARTIN  T>0\JI^— ecstatically.— 0\v,  glory 
be  to  God,  I  see  now  surely.  ...  I  see  the 
walls  of  the  church,   and  the  green  bits  of 


The  Well  of  the  Sx\ints  37 

ferns  in  them,  and  yourself,  holy  father,  and 
the  great  width  of  the  sky. 

[He  runs  out  half -foolish  with  joy,  and 

comes     past     Mary      Doul      as     she 

scrambles  to  her  fcct^  draiving  a  little 

away  from  her  as  he  goes  by. 

TIMMY — to     the     others.  —  He     doesn't 

know  her  at  all. 

[The    Saint    comes    out    behind    Martin 

Doul,   and  leads  Mary  Doul  into   the 

church.    Martin  Doid  comes  on  to  the 

People.    The  men  are  between  him  and 

the  Girls;   he  verifies  his  position  with 

his  stick. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  crying  out  joyfully.— 

That's  Timmy,  I  know  Timmy  by  the  black  of 

his  head.    .    .    .    That's    Mat   Simon,    I   know 

Mat   by   the   length   of   his   legs.    .    .    .    That 

should  be  Patch  Ruadh,  with  the  gamey  eyes 

in  him,  and  the  fiery  hair.      (He  sees  Molly 

Byrne   on  Mary  DouVs  seat^    and  his  voice 

changes  completely.)     Oh,  it  was  no  lie  they 

told  me,  Mary  Doul.     Oh,  glory  to  God  and 

the  seven  saints  I  didn't  die  and  not  see  you 

at  all.     The  blessing  of  God  on  the  water,  and 

the    feet   carried   it   round   through   the   land. 

The  blessing;-  of  God  on  this  day,  and  them 

that  brought  me  the  Saint,  for  it's  grand  hair 


38  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

you  have  (she  lowers  her  head  a  little  con- 
fused), and  soft  skin,  and  eyes  would  make 
the  saints,  if  they  were  dark  awhile  and  see- 
ing again,  fall  down  out  of  the  sky.  {He 
goes  nearer  to  her.)  Hold  up  your  head, 
Mary,  the  way  I'll  see  it's  richer  I  am  than 
the  great  kings  of  the  east.  Hold  up  your 
head,  I'm  saying,  for  it's  soon  you'll  be  seeing 
me,  and  I  not  a  bad  one  at  all. 

[//<?  touches  her  and  she  starts  up. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  Let  you  keep  away 
from  me,  and  not  be  soiling  my  chin. 

[People  laugh  heartily. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  bewildered.  —  It's 
Molly's  voice  you  have. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  Why  wouldn't  I  have 
my  own  voice?     Do  you  think  I'm  a  ghost? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Which  of  you  all  is 
herself?  {He  goes  up  to  Bride.)  Is  it  you 
is  Mary  Doul?  I'm  thinking  you're  more  the 
like  of  what  they  said  {peering  at  her.)  For 
you've  yellow  hair,  and  white  skin,  and  it's 
the  smell  of  my  own  turf  is  rising  from  your 
shawl. 

[He  catches  her  shazd. 

BRIDE  —  pidling   away   her  shawl.  —  I'm 

not  your  wife,  and  let  you  get  out  of  my  way. 

[The  People  laugh  again. 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  39 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  with  misgiving,  to  an- 
other Girl. —  Is  it  yourself  it  is?  You're  not 
so  fine-looking,  but  I'm  thinking  you'd  do, 
with  the  grand  nose  you  have,  and  your  nice 
hands  and  your  feet. 

GIRL  —  scornfully. —  I  never  seen  any 
person  that  took  me  for  blind,  and  a  seeing 
woman,  I'm  thinking,  would  never  wed  the 
like  of  you. 

[She  turns  azvay,  and  the  People  laugh 
once  more,  drawing  hack  a  little  and 
leaving  him  on  their  left. 

PEOPLE  —  jeeringly. —  Try  again,  Mar- 
tin, try  again,  and  you'll  be  finding  her  yet. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  passionately. — Where 
is  it  you  have  her  hidden  away?  Isn't  it  a 
black  shame  for  a  drove  of  pitiful  beasts  the 
like  of  you  to  be  making  game  of  me,  and 
putting  a  fool's  head  on  me  the  grand  day  of 
my  life?  Ah,  you're  thinking  you're  a  fine 
lot,  with  your  giggling,  weeping  eyes,  a 
fine  lot  to  be  making  game  of  myself  and  the 
woman  I've  heard  called  the  great  wonder  of 
the  west. 

[During  this  speech,  which  he  gives  with 
his  hack  towards  the  church,  Mary 
Doul   has   come    out  with   her  sight 


40  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

cured,  and  come  down  towards  the 
right  with  a  silly  simpering  smile,  till 
she  is  a  little  behind  Martin  Doul. 

MARY  DOUL — when  he  pauses. — Which 
of  you  is  Martin  Doul? 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  wheeling  round.—  It's 
her  voice  surely. 

[They  stare  at  each  other' blankly. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  — ^0  Martin  Doul— 
Go  up  now  and  take  her  under  the  chin  and 
be  speaking  the  way  you  spoke  to  myself. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  in  a  low  voice,  with 
intensity. —  If  I  speak  now,  I'll  speak  hard  to 
the  two  of  you 

MOLLY  BYRNE  — ^0  Mary  Doul— 
You're  not  saying  a  word,  Mary.  What  is 
it  you  think  of  himself,  with  the  fat  legs  on 
him,  and  the  little  neck  like  a  ram? 

MARY  DOUL.  I'm  thinking  it's  a  poor 
thing  when  the  Lord  God  gives  you  sight  and 
puts  the  like  of  that  man  in  your  way. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  It's  on  your  two 
loiees  you  should  be  thanking  the  Lord  God 
you're  not  looking  on  yourself,  for  if  it  was 
yourself  you  seen  you'd  be  running  round  in 
a  short  while  like  the  old  screeching  mad- 
woman is  running  round  in  the  glen. 

MARY  DOUL  —  beginning  to  realise  her- 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  41 

self.  —  If  I'm  not  so  fine  as  some  of  them  said, 
I  have  my  hair,  and  big  eyes,  and  my  white 
skin 

MARTIN  i:fO\]l.  — breaking  out  into  a 
passionate  cry.  —  Your  hair,  and  your  big 
eyes,  is  it?  .  .  .  I'm  telhng  you  there  isn't 
a  wisp  on  any  gray  mare  on  the  ridge  of  the 
world  isn't  finer  than  the  dirty  twist  on  your 
head.  There  isn't  two  eyes  in  any  starving 
sow  isn't  finer  than  the  eyes  you  were  calHng 
blue  like  the  sea. 

MARY  BOUl^  —  intermpting  him.  — It's 
the  devil  cured  you  this  day  with  your  talking 
of  sows;  it's  the  devil  cured  you  this  day,  I'm 
saying,  and  drove  you  crazy  with  lies. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Isn't  it  yourself  is 
after  playing  lies  on  me,  ten  years,  in  the  day 
and  in  the  night ;  but  what  is  that  to  you  now 
the  Lord  God  has  given  eyes  to  me,  the  way 
I  see  you  an  old  wizendy  hag,  was  never  fit 
to  rear  a  child  to  me  itself. 

MARY  DOUL.  I  wouldn't  rear  a 
crumpled  w^help  the  like  of  you.  It's  many  a 
woman  is  married  with  finer  than  yourself 
should  be  praising  God  if  she's  no  child,  and 
isn't  loading  the  earth  with  things  would  make 
the  heavens  lonesome  above,  and  they  scaring 
the  larks,  and  the  crows,  and  the  angels  pass- 
ing in  the  sky. 


42  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Go  on  now  to  be  seek- 
ing a  lonesome  place  where  the  earth  can  hide 
you  away;  go  on  now,  I'm  saying,  or  you'll 
be  having  men  and  women  with  their  knees 
bled,  and  they  screaming  to  God  for  a  holy 
water  would  darken  their  sight,  for  there's 
no  man  but  would  liefer  be  blind  a  hundred 
years,  or  a  thousand  itself,  than  to  be  looking 
on  your  like. 

MARY  DOUL  —  raising  her  stick. — May- 
be if  I  hit  you  a  strong  blow  you'd  be  blind 

again,  and  having  what  you  want 

[The  Saint  is  seen  in  the  church  door 
with  his  head  bent  in  prayer. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  raising  his  stick  and 
driving  Mary  Doid  back  tozvards  left. —  Let 
you  keep  off  from  me  now  if  you  wouldn't 
have  me  strike  out  the  little  handful  of  brains 
you  have  about  on  the  road. 

[He  is  going  to  strike  her,  but  Timmy 
catches  him  by  the  arm. 

TIMMY.  Have  you  no  shame  to  be  mak- 
ing a  great  row,  and  the  Saint  above  saying 
his  prayers? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  What  is  it  I  care  for 
the  like  of  him?  (Struggling  to  free  him- 
self).   Let  me  hit  her  one  good  one,  for  the 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  43 

love  of  the  Almighty  God,  and  I'll  be  quiet 
after  till  I  die. 

TIMMY — shaking  him. —  Will  you  whisht, 
I'm  saying. 

SAINT  —  coming  forzvard,  centre.  —  Are 
their  minds  troubled  with  joy,  or  is  their  sight 
uncertain,  the  way  it  does  often  be  the  day  a 
person  is  restored? 

TIMMY.  It's  too  certain  their  sight  is, 
holy  father;  and  they're  after  making  a  great 
fight,  because  they're  a  pair  of  pitiful  shows. 

SAINT  —  coming  betzveen  them.  —  May 
the  Lord  who  has  given  you  sight  send  a  little 
sense  into  your  heads,  the  way  it  won't  be  on 
your  two  selves  you'll  be  looking  —  on  two 
pitiful  sinners  of  the  earth  —  but  on  the 
splendour  of  the  Spirit  of  God,  you'll  see  an 
odd  time  shining  out  through  the  big  hills, 
and  steep  streams  falling  to  the  sea.  For  if 
it's  on  the  like  of  that  you  do  be  thinking, 
you'll  not  be  minding  the  faces  of  men,  but 
you'll  be  saying  prayers  and  great  praises,  till 
you'll  be  living  the  way  the  great  saints  do  be 
living,  with  little  but  old  sacks,  and  skin 
covering  their  bones.  (To  Tim  my.)  Leave 
him  go  now,  you're  seeing  he's  quiet  again. 
(He  frees  Martin  Doul.)  And  let  you  (he 
turns  to  Mary  Doul)    not    be    raising    your 


44  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

voice,  a  bad  thing  in  a  woman ;  but  let  the  lot 
of  you,  who  have  seen  the  power  of  the  Lord, 
be  thinking  on  it  in  the  dark  night,  and  be 
saying  to  yourselves  it's  great  pity  and  love 
He  has  for  the  poor,  starving  people  of 
Ireland.  {He  gathers  his  cloak  about  him.) 
And  now  the  Lord  send  blessing  to  you  all, 
for  I  am  going  on  to  Annagolan,  where  there 
is  a  deaf  woman,  and  to  Laragh,  where  there 
are  two  men  without  sense,  and  to  Glenassil, 
where  there  are  children  blind  from  their 
birth;  and  then  I'm  going  to  sleep  this  night 
in  the  bed  of  the  holy  Kevin,  and  to  be  prais- 
ing God,  and  asking  great  blessing  on  you  all. 

[He  bends  his  head. 


CURTAIN 


ACT  ir 

Village  roadside,  on  left  the  door  of  a  forge, 
with  broken  zvhcels,  etc.,  lying  about.  A  zvell 
near  centre,  with  board  above  it,  and  room  to 
pass  behind  it.  Martin  Doul  is  sitting  near 
forge,  cutting  sticks. 

TIMMY  —  heard  hammering  inside  forge, 
then  calls.  —  Let  you  make  haste  out  there. 
.  .  .  I'll  be  putting  up  new  fires  at  the  turn 
of  day,  and  you  haven't  the  half  of  them  cut 
yet. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — ^/oo;m/y.  —  It's  de- 
stroyed I'll  be  whacking  your  old  thorns  till 
the  turn  of  day,  and  I  with  no  food  in  my 
stomach  would  keep  the  life  in  a  pig.  {He 
turns  fozvards  the  door.)  Let  you  come  out 
here  and  cut  them  yourself  if  you  want  them 
cut,  for  there's  an  hour  every  day  when  a 
man  has  a  right  to  his  rest. 

TIMMY  —  coming  out,  with  a  hammer, 
impatiently.  —  Do  you  want  me  to  be  driving 
you  off  again  to  be  walking  the  roads  ?  There 
you  are  now,  and  I  giving  you  your  food,  and 
a  corner  to  sleep,  and  money  with  it;  and,  to 
hear  the  talk  of  you,  you'd  think  I  was  after 
beating  you,  or  stealing  your  gold. 


46  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

MARTIN  DOUL.  You'd  do  it  handy, 
maybe,  if  I'd  gold  to  steal. 

TIMMY  —  fhrozvs  dozvn  hammer;  picks 
up  some  of  the  sticks  already  cut,  and  throws 
them  into  door.)  There's  no  fear  of  your 
having  gold  —  a  lazy,  basking  fool  the  like 
of  you. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  No  fear,  maybe,  and 
I  here  with  yourself,  for  it's  more  I  got  a 
while  since  and  I  sitting  blinded  in  Grianan, 
than  I  get  in  this  place  working  hard,  and 
destroying  myself,  the  length  of  the  day. 

TIMMY  —  stopping  zvith  amazement. — 
Working  hard?  {He  goes  over  to  him.)  Fll 
teach  you  to  work  hard,  Martin  Doul.  Strip 
off  your  coat  now,  and  put  a  tuck  in  your 
sleeves,  and  cut  the  lot  of  them,  while  I'd  rake 
the  ashes  from  the  forge,  or  I'll  not  put  up 
with  you  another  hour  itself. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  horrified.  —  Would 
you  have  me  getting  my  death  sitting  out  in 
the  black  wintry  air  with  no  coat  on  me  at  all? 

TIMMY  —  zvith  authority.  —  Strip  it  off 
now,  or  walk  down  upon  the  road. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  bitterly.  —  Oh,  God 
help  me!  {He  begins  taking  off  his  coat.) 
I've  heard  tell  you  stripped  the  sheet  from 
your  wife  and  you  putting  her  down  into  the 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  47 

grave,  and  that  there  isn't  the  like  of  you  for 
plucking-  your  living  ducks,  the  short  days, 
and  leaving  them  running  round  in  their  skins, 
in  the  great  rains  and  the  cold.  {He  tucks  up 
his  sleeves.)  Ah,  I've  heard  a  power  of  queer 
things  of  yourself,  and  there  isn't  one  of  them 
I'll  not  believe  from  this  day,  and  be  telling 
to  the  boys. 

TIMMY  —  pulling  over  a  big  stick. —  Let 
you  cut  that  now,  and  give  me  rest  from  your 
talk,  for  I'm  not  heeding  you  at  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  taking  stick.—  That's 
a  hard,  terrible  stick,  Timmy;  and  isn't  it  a 
poor  thing  to  be  cutting  strong  timber  the  like 
of  that,  when  it's  cold  the  bark  is,  and  slippy 
with  the  frost  of  the  air? 

TIMMY  —  gathering  up  another  armful 
of  sticks. —  What  way  wouldn't  it  be  cold,  and 
it  freezing  since  the  moon  was  changed? 

[He  goes  into  forge. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  querulously,  as  he  cuts 
slowly. —  What  way,  indeed,  Timmy?  For 
it's  a  raw,  beastly  day  we  do  have  each  day, 
till  I  do  be  thinking  it's  well  for  the  blind 
don't  be  seeing  them  gray  clouds  driving  on 
the  hill,  and  don't  be  looking  on  people  with 
their  noses  red,   the  like  of  your  nose,   and 


48  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

their  eyes  weeping  and  watering,  the  like  of 
your  eyes,  God  help  you,  Timmy  the  smith. 

TIMMY  —  seen  blinking  in  doorway. —  Is 
it  turning  now  you  are  against  your  sight? 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  very  miserably. —  It's 
a  hard  thing  for  a  man  to  have  his  sight,  and 
he  living  near  to  the  like  of  you  (he  cuts  a 
stick  and  throivs  it  azvay),  or  wed  with  a  wife 
(cuts  a  stick)  ;  and  I  do  be  thinking  it  should 
be  a  hard  thing  for  the  Almighty  God  to  be 
looking  on  the  world,  bad  days,  and  on  men 
the  like  of  yourself  walking  around  on  it,  and 
they  slipping  each  way  in  the  muck. 

TIMMY  —  with  pot-hooks  -which  he  taps 
on  anvil. —  You'd  have  a  right  to  be  minding, 
Martin  Doul,  for  it's  a  power  the  Saint  cured 
lose  their  sight  after  a  while.  Mary  Doul's 
dimming  again,  I've  heard  them  say;  and  I'm 
thinking  the  Lord,  if  he  hears  you  making 
that  talk,  will  have  little  pity  left  for  you  at 
all. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  There's  not  a  bit  of 
fear  of  me  losing  my  sight,  and  if  it's  a  dark 
day  itself  it's  too  well  I  see  every  wicked 
wrinkle  you  have  round  by  your  eye. 

TIMMY  —  looking  at  him  sharply. —  The 
day's  not  dark  since  the  clouds  broke  in  the 
east. 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  49 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Let  you  not  be  tor- 
menting yourself  trying  to  make  me  afeard. 
You  told  me  a  power  of  bad  lies  the  time 
I  was  blind,  and  it's  right  now  for  you 
to  stop,  and  be  taking  your  rest  {Mary  Don! 
comes  in  imnoticed  on  right  with  a  sack  filled 
with  green  stuff  on  her  arm),  for  it's  little 
ease  or  quiet  any  person  would  get  if  the 
big  fools  of  Ireland  weren't  weary  at  times. 
{He  looks  tip  and  sees  Mary  Doid.)  Oh. 
glory  be  to  God,  she's  coming  again. 

[He  begins  to  work  busily  zvith  his  back 
to  her. 

TIMMY  —  amused,  to  Mary  Doul,  as  she 
is  going  by  zvithout  looking  at  them. —  Look 
on  him  now,  Mary  Doul.  You'd  be  a  great 
one  for  keeping  him  steady  at  his  work,  for 
he's  after  idling  and  blathering  to  this  hour 
from  the  dawn  of  day. 

MARY  DOUL  — stiffly.— Oi  what  is  it 
you're  speaking,  Timmy  the  smith? 

TIMMY  —  laughing. —  Of  himself,  surely. 
Look  on  him  there,  and  he  with  the  shirt  on 
him  ripping  from  his  back.  You'd  have  ? 
right  to  come  round  this  night,  I'm  thinkin,- 
and  put  a  stitch  into  his  clothes,  for  it's  long 
enough  you  are  not  speaking  one  to  the  other. 


50  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

•'    MARY  DOUL.     Let  the  two  of  you  not 

torment  me  at  all. 

[She  goes  out  left,  with  her  head  in  the 
air. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  stops  work  and  looks 
after  her. —  Well,  isn't  it  a  queer  thing  she 
can't  keep  herself  two  days  without  looking 
on  my  face? 

TIMMY  —  jeeringly. —  Looking  on  your 
face  is  it?  And  she  after  going  by  with  her 
head  turned  the  way  you'd  see  a  priest  going 
where  there'd  be  a  drunken  man  in  the  side 
ditch  talking  with  a  girl.  {Martin  Doul  gets 
up  and  goes  to  corner  of  forge,  and  looks 
out  left.)  Come  back  here  and  don't  mind 
her  at  all.  Come  back  here,  I'm  saying, 
you've  no  call  to  be  spying  behind  her  since 
she  went  off,  and  left  you,  in  place  of  break- 
ing her  heart,  trying  to  keep  you  in  the 
decency  of  clothes  and  food. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  crying  out  indignant- 
ly.—  You  know  rightly,  Timmy,  it  was  my- 
self drove  her  away. 

TIMMY.  That's  a  lie  you're  tellin.sf,  yet 
it's  little  I  care  which  one  of  you  was  driving 
the  other,  and  let  you  walk  back  here,  I'm 
saying,  to  your  work. 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  51 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  turning  round. —  Fm 
coming,  surely. 

[He  stops  and  looks  out  right,  going  a 
step  or  two  toiuards  centre. 

TIMMY.  On  what  is  it  you're  gaping, 
Martin  Doul? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  There's  a  person  walk- 
ing above.  .  .  .  It's  Molly  Byrne,  I'm  think- 
ing, coming  down  with  her  can. 

TIMMY.  If  she  is  itself  let  you  not  be 
idling  this  day,  or  minding  her  at  all,  and  let 
you  hurry  with  them  sticks,  for  I'll  want  you 
in  a  short  while  to  be  blowing  in  the  forge. 

[He  throws  down  pot-hooks. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — crying  out.— Is  it 
roasting  me  now  you'd  be?  (Turns  back  and 
sees  pot-hooks;  he  takes  them  up.)  Pot- 
hooks? Is  it  over  them  you've  been  inside 
sneezing  and  sweating;  since  the  dawn  of  day? 

TIMMY  —  resting  himself  on  anvil,  with 
satisfaction. —  I'm  making  a  power  of  things 
you  do  have  when  you're  settling  with  a  wife, 
Martin  Doul;  for  I  heard  tell  last  night  the 
Saint'll  be  passing  again  in  a  short  while,  and 
I'd  have  him  wed  Molly  with  myself.  .  .  . 
He'd  do  it,  I've  heard  them  say,  for  not  a 
penny  at  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  lays  down  hooks  and 


52  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

looks  at  him  steadily. —  Molly '11  be  saying 
great  praises  now  to  the  Almighty  God  and 
He  giving  her  a  fine,  stout,  hardy  man  the 
like  of  you. 

TIMMY  —  uneasily. —  And  why  wouldn't 
she,  if  she's  a  fine  woman  itself? 

MARTIN  DOUL  — /oo^w^  up  right.— 
Why  wouldn't  she,  indeed,  Timmy?  .... 
The  Almighty  God's  made  a  fine  match  in  the 
two  of  you,  for  if  you  went  marrying  a 
woman  was  the  like  of  yourself  you'd  be 
having  the  fearfullest  little  children,  I'm 
thinking,  was  ever  seen  in  the  world. 

TIMMY  —  seriously  offended. —  God  for- 
give you!  if  you're  an  ugly  man  to  be  looking 
at,  I'm  thinking  your  tongue's  worse  than 
your  view. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — /n/rif  also.—  lm't  it 
destroyed  with  the  cold  I  am,  and  if  I'm  ugly 
itself  I  never  seen  anyone  the  like  of  you  for 
dreepiness  this  day,  Timmy  the  smith,  and 
I'm  thinking  now  herself 's  coming  above 
you'd  have  a  right  to  step  up  into  your  old 
shanty,  and  give  a  rub  to  your  face,  and  not 
be  sitting  there  with  your  bleary  eyes,  and 
your  big  nose,  the  like  of  an  old  scarecrow 
stuck  down  upon  the  road. 

TIMMY  —  looking  up  the  road  uneasily. — 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  53 

She's  no  call  to  mind  what  way  I  look,  and  I 
after  building  a  house  with  four  rooms  in  it 
above  on  the  hill.  (He  stands  up.)  But  it's 
a  queer  thing  the  way  yourself  and  Mary  Doul 
are  after  setting  every  person  in  this  place, 
and  up  beyond  to  Rathvanna,  talking  of 
nothing,  and  thinking  of  nothing,  but  the  way 
they  do  be  looking  in  the  face.  (Going 
towards  forge.)  It's  the  devil's  work  you're 
after  doing  with  your  talk  of  fine  looks,  and 
I'd  do  right,  maybe,  to  step  in  and  wash  the 
blackness  from  my  eyes. 

[He  goes  into  forge.  Martin  Doul  rubs 
his  face  furtively  with  the  tail  of  his 
coat.  Molly  Byrne  comes  on  right 
with  a  water-can,^  and  begins  to  fill  it 
at  the  well. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  God  save  you,  Molly 
Byrne. 

MOLLY     BYRNE  —  indifferently.—  God 

save  you. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  That's  a  dark,  gloomy 
day,  and  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  us  all. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.     Middling  dark. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  It's  a  power  of  dirty 
days,  and  dark  mornings,  and  shabby-looking 
fellows     (he    makes    a    gesture     over    his 


54  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

shoulder)  we  do  have  to  be  looking  on  when 
we  have  our  sight,  God  help  us,  but  there's 
one  fine  thing  we  have,  to  be  looking  on  a 
grand,  white,  handsome  girl,  the  like  of  you 
....  and  every  time  I  set  my  eyes  on  you 
I  do  be  blessing  the  saints,  and  the  holy  water, 
and  the  power  of  the  Lord  Almighty  in  th^ 
heavens  above. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  I've  heard  the  priests 
say  it  isn't  looking  on  a  young  girl  would 
teach  many  to  be  saying  their  prayers. 

[Bailing  water  into  her  can  zvith  a  cup. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  It  isn't  many  have 
been  the  way  I  was,  hearing  your  voice  speak- 
ing, and  not  seeing  you  at  all. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  That  should  have  been 
a  queer  time  for  an  old,  wicked,  coaxing  fool 
to  be  sitting  there  with  your  eyes  shut,  and 
not  seeing  a  sight  of  girl  or  woman  passing 
the  road. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  If  it  was  a  queer  time 
itself  it  was  great  joy  and  pride  I  had  the  time 
I'd  hear  your  voice  speaking  and  you  passing 
to  Grianan  {beginning  to  speak  with  plaintive 
intensity),  for  it's  of  many  a  fine  thing  your 
voice  would  put  a  poor  dark  fellow  in  mind, 
and  the  day  I'd  hear  it  it's  of  little  else  at  all 
I  v/ould  ])e  thinking. 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  55 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  I'll  tell  your  wife  if 
you  talk  to  me  the  like  of  that.  .  .  .  You've 
heard,  maybe,  she's  below  picking  nettles  for 
the  widow  O'Flinn,  who  took  great  pity  on 
her  when  she  seen  the  two  of  you  fighting, 
and  yourself  putting  shame  on  her  at  the 
crossing  of  the  roads. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  impatiently.  —  I  s 
there  no  living  person  can  speak  a  score  of 
words  to  me,  or  say  "  God  speed  you,"  itself, 
without  putting  me  in  mind  of  the  old  woman, 
or  that  day  either  at  Grianan? 

MOLLY  BYR'NE  — maliciously.— 1  was 
thinking  it  should  be  a  fine  thing  to  put  you 
in  mind  of  the  day  you  called  the  grand  day 
of  your  life. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Grand  day,  is  it? 
(Plaintively  again,  throwing  aside  his  work, 
and  leaning  towards  her.)  Or  a  bad  black  day 
when  I  was  roused  up  and  found  I  was  the 
like  of  the  little  children  do  be  listening  to 
the  stories  of  an  old  woman,  and  do  be  dream- 
ing after  in  the  dark  night  that  it's  in  grand 
houses  of  gold  they  are,  with  speckled  horses 
to  ride,  and  do  be  waking  again,  in  a  short 
while,  and  they  destroyed  with  the  cold,  and 
the  thatch  dripping,  maybe,  and  the  starved 
ass  braying  in  the  yard? 


56  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  zvorking  indifferent- 
ly.—  You've  great  romancing  this  day,  Mar- 
tin Doul.  Was  it  up  at  the  still  you  were 
at  the  fall  of  night? 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  stajids  up,  comes  to- 
zvards  her,  hut  stands  at  far  (right)  side  of 
well. —  It  was  not,  Molly  Byrne,  but  lying 
down  in  a  little  rickety  shed.  .  .  .  Lying  down 
across  a  sop  of  straw,  and  I  thinking  I  was 
seeing  you  walk,  and  hearing  the  sound  of 
your  step  on  a  dry  road,  and  hearing  you 
again,  and  you  laughing  and  making  great 
talk  in  a  high  room  with  dry  timber  lining  the 
roof.  For  it's  a  fine  sound  your  voice  has 
that  time,  and  it's  better  I  am,  I'm  thinking, 
lying  down,  the  way  a  blind  man  does  be 
lying,  than  to  be  sitting  here  in  the  gray  light 
taking  hard  words  of  Timmy  the  smith. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  looking  at  him  with 
interest. —  It's  queer  talk  you  have  if  it's  a 
little,  old,  shabby  stump  of  a  man  you  are 
itself. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  I'm  not  so  old  as  you 
do  hear  them  say. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  You're  old,  I'm  think- 
ing, to  be  talking  that  talk  with  a  girl. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  despondingly.—  It's 
not  a  lie  you're  telling,  maybe,  for  it's  long 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  57 

years  I'm  after  losing  from  the  world,  feeling 
love  and  talking  love,  with  the  old  woman, 
and  I  fooled  the  whole  while  with  the  lies  of 
Timmy  the  smith. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  — half  invitingly.— It's 
a  fine  way  you're  wanting  to  pay  Timmy  tht 
smith.  .  .  .  And  it's  not  his  lies  you're  mak- 
ing love  to  this  day,  Martin  Doul. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  It  is  not,  Molly,  and 
the  Lord  forgive  us  all.  (He  passes  behind 
her  and  comes  near  her  left.)  For  I've  heard 
tell  there  are  lands  beyond  in  Cahir  Iveraghig 
and  the  Reeks  of  Cork  with  warm  sun  in 
them,  and  fine  light  in  the  sky.  (Bending 
towards  her.)  And  light's  a  grand  thing  for 
a  man  ever  was  blind,  or  a  woman,  with  a 
fine  neck,  and  a  skin  on  her  the  like  of  you, 
'he  way  we'd  have  a  right  to  go  off  this  day 
till  we'd  have  a  fine  life  passing  abroad 
through  them  towns  of  the  south,  and  we  tell- 
ing stories,  maybe,  or  singing  songs  at  the 
fairs. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  turning  round  half 
amused,  and  looking  him  over  from  head  to 
foot. —  Well,  isn't  it  a  queer  thing  when  your 
own  wife's  after  leaving  you  because  you're 
a  pitiful  show,  you'd  talk  the  like  of  that  to 
me? 


^8  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  drawing  back  a  little, 
hurt,  but  indignant.  —  It's  a  queer  thing,  may- 
be, for  all  things  is  queer  in  the  world.  (In 
a  loziu  voice  zuith  pecidiar  emphasis.)  But 
there's  one  thing  I'm  telling  you,  if  she  walked 
off  away  from  me,  it  wasn't  because  of  seeing 
me,  and  I  no  more  than  I  am,  but  because  I 
was  looking  on  her  with  my  two  eyes,  and  she 
getting  up,  and  eating  her  food,  and  combing 
her  hair,  and  lying  down  for  her  sleep. 

MOLLY  'BYl^'^Y.  — interested,  off  her 
guard.  —  Wouldn't  any  married  man  you'd 
have  be  doing  the  like  of  that? 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  seizing  the  moment 
that  he  has  her  attention.  —  I'm  thinking  by 
the  mercy  of  God  it's  few  sees  anything  but 
them  is  blind  for  a  space  {with  excitement.) 
It's  a  few^  sees  the  old  woman  rotting  for  the 
grave,  and  it's  few  sees  the  like  of  yourself. 
{He  bends  over  her.)  Though  it's  shining 
you  are,  like  a  high  lamp  would  drag  in  the 
ships  out  of  the  sea. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  shrinking  away  from 
him.  —  Keep  off  from  me,  Martin  Doul. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — quicJdy,  with  low, 
furious  intensity.  —  It's  the  truth  I'm  telling 
you.  {He  puts  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
shakes  her.)     And    you'd    do    right    not    to 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  59 

marry  a  man  is  after  looking  out  a  long  while 
on  the  bad  days  of  the  world;  for  what  way 
would  the  like  of  him  have  fit  eyes  to  look  on 
yourself,  when  you  rise  up  in  the  morning 
and  come  out  of  the  little  door  you  have  above 
in  the  lane,  the  time  it'd  be  a  fine  thing  if  a 
man  would  be  seeing,  and  losing  his  sight,  the 
way  he'd  have  your  two  eyes  facing  him,  and 
he  going  the  roads,  and  shining  above  him, 
and  he  looking  in  the  sky,  and  springing  up 
from  the  earth,  the  time  he'd  lower  his  head, 
in  place  of  the  muck  that  seeing  men  do  meet 
all  roads  spread  on  the  world. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  — zvho  has  listened  half 
mesmerised,  starting  aziHiy. —  It's  the  like  of 
that  talk  you'd  hear  from  a  man  would  be 
losing  his  mind. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  going  after  her,  pass- 
ing to  her  right. —  It'd  be  little  wonder  if  a 
man  near  the  like  of  you  would  be  losing  his 
mind.  Put  down  your  can  now,  and  come 
along  with  myself,  for  I'm  seeing  you  this 
day,  seeing  you,  maybe,  the  way  no  man  has 
seen  you  in  the  world.  (He  takes  her  by  the 
arm  and  trys  to  pidl  her  away  softly  to  the 
right.)  Let  you  come  on  now,  I'm  saying,  to 
the  lands  of  Iveragh  and  the  Reeks  of  Cork, 
v/here  you  won't  set  down  the  width  of  your 


6o  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

two  feet  and  not  be  crushing  fine  flowers,  and 
making  sweet  smells  in  the  air. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  laying  dozvn  the  can; 
trying  to  free  herself. —  Leave  me  go,  Martin 
Doul!     Leave  me  go,  Lm  saying! 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Let  you  not  be  fool- 
ing. Come  along  now  the  little  path  through 
the  trees. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  crying  out  tozvards 
forge. —  Timmy  —  Timmy  the  smith. 
(Timmy  comes  out  of  forge,  and  Martin  Doid 
lets  her  go.  Molly  Byrne,  excited  and  breath- 
less, pointing  to  Martin  Doul.)  Did  ever  you 
hear  that  them  that  loses  their  sight  loses  their 
senses  along  with  it,  Timmy  the  smith ! 

TIMMY  —  suspicious,  hut  uncertain.  — 
He's  no  sense,  surely,  and  he'll  be  having  him- 
self driven  off  this  day  from  where  he's  good 
sleeping,  and  feeding,  and  wages  for  his  work. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  — a.y  before.— Yit's  a 
bigger  fool  than  that,  Timmy.  Look  on  him 
now,  and  tell  me  if  that  isn't  a  grand  fellow 
to  think  he's  only  to  open  his  mouth  to  have 
a  fine  woman,  the  like  of  me,  running  along 
by  his  heels. 

{^Martin  Doul  recoils  towards  centre, 
with  his  hand  to  his  eyes;  Mary  Doid 
is  seen  on  left  coming  forward  softly. 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  6i 

TIIMMY  —  zi'ith  blank  amazement.  —  Oh, 
the  blind  is  wicked  people,  and  it's  no  lie. 
But  he'll  walk  off  this  day  and  not  be  troub- 
ling us  more. 

[Turns  hack  left  and  picks  up  Martin 
DouVs  coat  and  stick;  some  things  fall 
out  of  coat  pocket,  which  he  gathers 
up  again. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  turns  around,  sees 
Mary  Doul,  zvhispers  to  Molly  Byrne  idth 
imploring  agony.  —  Let  you  not  put  shame  on 
me,'  Molly,  before  herself  and  the  smith.  Let 
you  not  put  shame  on  me  and  I  after  saying 
fine  words  to  you,  and  dreaming  .  .  .  dreams 
....  in  the  night.  {He  hesitates,  and  looks 
round  the  sky.)  Is  it  a  storm  of  thunder  is 
coming,  or  the  last  end  of  the  world?  {He 
staggers  tozcards  Mary  Doid,  tripping  slightly 
over  tin  can.)  The  heavens  is  closing,  I'm 
thinking,  with  darkness  and  great  trouble 
passing  in  the  sky.  {He  reaches  Mary  Doul, 
and  seizes  her  left  arm  with  both  his  hands  — 
with  a  frantic  cry.)  Is  if  darkness  of  thunder 
is  coming,  Mary  Doul !  Do  you  see  me  clear- 
ly with  your  eyes? 

MARY  DOUL  —  snatches  her  arm  azvay, 
and  hits  him  with  empty  sack  across  the  face. 


62  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

—  I  see  you  a  sight  too  clearly,  and  let  you 
keep  off  from  me  now. 

MOLLY   BYRl^E  — clapping  her  hands. 

—  That's  right,  Mary.  That's  the  way  to 
treat  the  like  of  him  is  after  standing  there  at 
my  feet  and  asking  me  to  go  off  with  him, 
till  I'd  grow  an  old  wretched  road-woman  the 
like  of  yourself. 

MARY  DOUL  —  defiantly.—  When  the 
skin  shrinks  on  your  chin,  Molly  Byrne,  there 
won't  be  the  like  of  you  for  a  shrunk  hag  in 
the  four  quarters  of  Ireland.  .  .  .  It's  a  fine 
pair  you'd  be,  surely! 

[Martin  Dord  is  standing  at  back  right 
cemre,  zvith  his  back  to  the  audience. 

TIMMY  —  coming  over  to  Mary  Doul. — 
Is  it  no  shame  you  have  to  let  on  she'd  ever 
be  the  like  of  you? 

MARY  DOUL.  It's  them  that's  fat  and 
flabby  do  be  wrinkled  young,  and  that  whitish 
yellowy  hair  she  has  does  be  soon  turning  the 
like  of  a  handful  of  thin  grass  you'd  see  rot- 
ting, where  the  wet  lies,  at  the  north  of  a  sty. 
{Turning  to  go  out  on  right.)  Ah,  it's  a 
better  thing  to  have  a  simple,  seemly  face,  the 
like  of  my  face,  for  two-score  years,  or  fifty 
itself,  than  to  be  setting  fools  mad  a  short 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  63 

while,  and  then  to  be  turning  a  thing  would 
drive  off  the  little  children  from  your  feet. 
[She  goes   out;  Martin  Doul  has  come 

forzvard  again,  mastering  himself,  hut 

uncertain. 

TIMMY.  Oh,  God  protect  us,  Molly, 
from  the  words  of  the  blind.  {He  throzvs 
down  Martin  Void's  coat  and  stick.)  There's 
your  old  rubbish  now,  Martin  Doul,  and  let 
you  take  it  up,  for  it's  all  you  'ave,  and  walk 
off  through  the  world,  for  if  ever  I  meet  you 
coming  again,  if  it's  seeing  or  blind  you  are 
itself,  I'll  bring  out  the  big  hammer  and  hit 
you  a  welt  with  it  will  leave  you  easy  till  the 
judgment  day. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  rojtsing  himself  with 
an  effort. —  Vv  hat  call  have  you  to  talk  the 
like  of  that  with  myself? 

TIMMY  —  pointing  to  Molly  Byrne. — 
It's  well  you  know  what  call  I  have.  It's  well 
you  know  a  decent  girl,  I'm  thinking  to  wed, 
has  no  riglit  to  have  her  heart  scalded  with 
hearing  talk  —  and  queer,  bad  talk,  I'm 
thinking  —  from  a  raggy-looking  fool  the 
like  of  you. 

MARTIN  BOVL  — raisin f^  his  voice.— 
It's  making  game  of  you  she  is,  for  what  see- 


64  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

ing  girl  would  marry  with  yourself?  Look 
on  him,  Molly,  look  on  him,  I'm  saying,  for 
I'm  seeing  him  still,  and  let  you  raise  your 
voice,  for  the  time  is  come,  and  bid  him  go 
up  into  his  forge,  and  be  sitting  there  by  him- 
self, sneezing  and  sweating,  and  he  beating 
pot-hooks  till  the  judgment  day. 

[He  seises  her  arm  again. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  Keep  him  off  from 
me,  Timmy! 

TIMMY  —  pushing  Martin  Doiil  aside. — 
Would  you  have  me  strike  you,  Martin  Doul  ? 
Go  along  now  after  your  wife,  who's  a  fit 
match  for  you,  and  leave  Molly  with  myself. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  despairingl y.— 
Won't  you  raise  your  voice,  Molly,  and  lay 
hell's  long  curse  on  his  tongue? 

MOLLY  BYRNE  — 07Z  Timmy s  left.— 
I'll  be  telling  him  it's  destroyed  I  am  with  the 
sight  of  you  and  the  sound  of  your  voice.  Go 
off  now  after  your  wife,  and  if  she  beats  you 
ic^ain,  let  you  go  after  the  tinker  girls  is  above 
running  the  hills,  or  down  among  the  sluts  of 
the  town,  and  you'll  learn  one  day,  mavb-. 
the  way  a  man  should  speak  with  a  wtll- 
reared,  civil  girl  the  like  of  me.  (She  fakes 
Timmv  bv  the  arm.)  Come  up  now  into  ^' 
forge  till  he'll  be  gone  down  a  bit  on  the  roni 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  65 

for  it's  near  afeard  I  am  of  the  wild  look  he 
has  come  in  his  eyes. 

[She  goes  into  the  forge.     Tinimy  stops 
in  the  doorway. 

TIMMY.  Let  me  not  find  you  out  here 
again,  Martin  Doul.  {He  hares  his  arm.) 
It's  well  you  know  Timmy  the  smith  has 
great  strength  in  his  arm,  and  it's  a  power  of 
things  it  has  broken  a  sight  harder  than  the 
old  bone  of  your  skull. 

{He  goes  into   the  forge  and  pidls  the 
door  after  him. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  stands  a  moment  with 
his  hand  to  his  eyes. —  And  that's  the  last 
thing  I'm  to  set  my  sight  on  in  the  life  of  the 
world  —  the  villainy  of  a  woman  and  the 
bloody  strength  of  ^  man.  Oh,  God,  pity  a 
poor,  blind  fellow,  the  way  I  n  this  day  with 
no  strength  in  me  to  do  hurt  to  them  at  all. 
{He  begins  groping  abont  for  a  moment,  then 
stops.)  Yet  if  I've  no  strength  in  me  I've  a 
voice  left  for  my  prayers,  and  may  God 
blight  them  this  day,  and  my  own  soul  the 
same  hour  with  them,  the  way  I'll  see  them 
after,  Molly  Byrne  and  Timmy  the  smith,  the 
two  of  them  on  a  1  igh  bed,  and  they  screech- 
ing in  hell.   .  .  .    It'll  be  a  grand  thing  that 


66  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

time  to  look  on  the  two  of  them;  and  they 
twisting  and  roaring  out,  and  twisting  and 
roaring  again,  one  day  and  the  next  day,  and 
each  day  always  and  ever.  It's  not  blind 
I'll  be  that  time,  and  it  won't  be  hell  to  me, 
I'm  thinking,  but  the  like  of  heaven  itself; 
and  it's  fine  care  I'll  be  taking  the  Lord 
Almighty  doesn't  know. 

[He  turns  to  grope  out. 


CURTAIN 


ACT  III 

The  same  Scene  as  in  first  Act,  but  gap  in 
centre  has  been  filled  with  briars,  or  branches 
of  some  sort.  Mary  Do  id,  blind  again,  gropes 
her  way  in  on  left,  and  sits  as  before.  She 
has  a  fezv  rushes  zmth  her.  It  is  an  early 
spring  day. 

MARY  DOUl^  — mour7if idly.— Ah,  God 
help  me  .  .  .  God  help  me;  the  blackness 
wasn't  so  black  at  all  the  other  time  as  it  is 
this  time,  and  it's  destroyed  I'll  be  now,  and 
hard  set  to  get  my  living  working  alone,  when 
it's  few  are  passing  and  the  winds  are  cold. 
{She  begins  sJrredding  rushes.)  I'm  think- 
ing short  days  will  be  long  days  to  me  from 
this  time,  and  I  sitting  here,  not  seeing  a  blink, 
or  hearing  a  word,  and  no  thought  in  my 
mind  but  long  prayers  that  Martin  Doul'll  get 
his  reward  in  a  short  while  for  the  villainy  of 
his  heart.  It's  great  jokes  the  people'll  be 
making  now,  I'm  thinking,  and  they  pass  me 
by,  pointing  their  fingers  maybe,  and  asking 
what  place  is  himself,  the  way  it's  no  quiet 
or  decency  I'll  have  from  this  day  till  I'm  an 
old  woman  with  long  white  hair  and  it  twist- 
ing from  my  brow.     (She  fumbles  with  her 


68  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

hair,  and  then  seems  to  hear  something.  Lis- 
tens  for  a  moment.)  There's  a  queer,  slouch- 
ing step  coming  on  the  road.  .  .  .  God  help 
me,  he's  coming  surely. 

[She  stays  perfectly  quiet.    Martin  Doul 
gropes  in  on  right,  blind  also. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — gloomily.— Tht  devil 
mend  Mary  Doul  for  putting  lies  on  me,  and 
letting  on  she  was  grand.  The  devil  mend  the 
old  Saint  for  letting  me  see  it  was  lies.  (He 
sits  down  near  her.)  The  devil  mend  Timmy 
the  smith  for  killing  me  with  hard  work,  and 
keeping  me  with  an  empty,  windy  stomach  in 
me,  in  the  day  and  in  the  night.  Ten  thousand 
devils  mend  the  soul  of  Molly  Byrne — (Mary 
Doid  nods  her  head  with  approval)  —  and 
the  bad,  wicked  souls  is  hidden  in  all  the 
women  of  the  world.  (He  rocks  himself, 
with  his  hand  over  his  face.)  It's  lonesome 
I'll  be  from  this  day,  and  if  living  people  is 
a  bad  lot,  yet  Mary  Doul,  herself,  and  she  a 
dirty,  wrinkled-looking  hag,  was  better  maybe 
to  be  sitting  along  with  than  no  one  at  all. 
I'll  be  getting  my  death  now,  I'm  thinking, 
sitting  alone  in  the  cold  air,  hearing  the  night 
coming,  and  the  blackbirds  flying  round  in 
the  briars  crying  to  themselves,  the  time  you'll 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  69 

hear  one  cart  getting  off  a  long  way  in  the 
east,  and  another  cart  getting  off  a  long  way 
in  the  west,  and  a  dog  barking  maybe,  and 
a  little  wind  turning  the  sticks.     {He  listens 
and  sighs  heavily.)     I'll  be  destroyed  sitting 
alone  and  losing  my  senses  this  time  the  way 
I'm  after  losing  my  sight,  for  i'-.'d  make  any 
person  afeard  to   ue   sitting  up   hearing  the 
sound  of  his  breath —  (he  moves  his  feet  on 
the  stones'  — and  the  noise  of  his  feet,  when 
ic's  a  power  of  queer  things  do  be  stirring, 
little  sticks  breaking,  and  the  grass  moving  — 
{Mary  Do  id  half  sighs,  and  he  turns  on  her 
in  horror)  —  till  you'd  take  your  dying  oath 
on  sun  and  moon  a  thing  was  breathing  on 
the  stones.      {He  listens  towards  her  for  a 
moment,  then  starts  up  nervously,  and  gropes 
about  for  his  stick.)     I'll  be  going  now,  I'm 
thinking,   but  I'm   not   sure   what  place   my 
stick's  in,  and  I'm  destroyed  with  terror  and 
dread.     {He  touches  her  face  as  he  is  groping 
about  and  cries  out.)     There's  a  thing  with  a 
cold,  living  face  on  it  sitting  up  at  my  side. 
{He  turns  to  run  away,  but  misses  his  path 
and  stumbles  in  against  the  wall.)     My  road 
is  lost  on  me  now !  Oh,  merciful  God,  set  my 
foot  on  the  path  this  day,  and  I'll  be  saying 
prayers  morning  and  night,  and  not  straining 


70 


The  Well  of  the  Saints 


my  ear  after  young  girls,  or  doing  any  bad 
thing  till  I  die . 

MARY  DOUL  —  indignantly.  —  Let  you 
not  be  telling  lies  to  the  Almighty  God. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Mary  Doul,  is  it? 
(Recovering  himself  with  immense  relief.) 
Is  it  Mary  Doul,  I'm  saying? 

MARY  DOUL.  There's  a  sweet  tone  in 
your  voice  I've  not  heard  for  a  space.  You're 
taking  me  for  Molly  Byrne,  I'm  thinking. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  coming  tozmrds  her, 
wiping  sweat  from  his  face.  —  Well,  sight's 
a  queer  thing  for  upsetting  a  man.  It's  a 
queer  thing  to  think  I'd  live  to  this  day  to  be 
fearing  the  like  of  you;  but  if  it's  shaken  I 
am  for  a  short  while,  I'll  soon  be  coming  to 
myself. 

MARY  DOUL.  You'll  be  grand  then,  and 
it's  no  lie. 

MARTIN  ViO'WL  — sitting  down  shyly, 
some  way  off.  —  You've  no  call  to  be  talking, 
for  I've  heard  tell  you're  as  blind  as  myself. 

MARY  DOUL.  If  I  am  I'm  bearing  in 
mind  I'm  married  to  a  little  dark  stump  of  a 
fellow  looks  the  fool  of  the  world,  and  I'll 
be  bearing  in  mind  from  this  day  the  great 
hullabuloo  he's  after  making  from  hearing  a 
poor  woman  breathing  quiet  in  her  place. 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  71 

MARTIN  DOUL.  And  you'll  be  bearing 
in  mind,  I'm  thinking,  what  you  seen  a  while 
back  when  you  looked  down  into  a  well,  or  a 
clear  pool,  maybe,  when  there  was  no  wind 
stirrinp-  and  a  good  light  in  the  sky. 

MARY  DOUL.  I'm  minding  that  surely, 
for  if  I'm  not  the  way  the  liars  were  saying 
below  I  seen  a  thing  in  them  pools  put  joy 
and  blessing  in  my  heart. 

[She  puts  her  hand  to  her  hair  again. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  laughing  ironically. — 
Well,  they  were  saying  below  I  was  losing  my 
senses,  but  I  never  went  any  day  the  length 
of  that.  .  .  .  God  help  you,  Mary  Doul,  iT 
you're  not  a  wonder  for  looks,  you're  the  mad- 
dest female  woman  is  walking  the  counties  of 
the  east. 

MARY  DOUL  —  scornfully. —  You  were 
saying  all  times  you'd  a  great  ear  for  hearing 
the  lies  of  the  world.  A  great  ear,  God  help 
you,  and  you  think  you're  using  it  now. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  If  it's  not  lies  you're 
telling  would  you  have  me  think  you're  not 
a  wrinkled  poor  woman  is  looking  like  three 
scores,  or  two  scores  and  a  half! 

MARY  DOUL.  I  would  not,  Martin. 
{She  leans  forzvard  earnestly.)  For  when 
I  seen  myself  in  them  pools,  I  seen  my  hair 


72  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

would  be  gray  or  white,  maybe,  in  a  short 
while,  and  I  seen  with  it  that  I'd  a  face  would 
be  a  great  wonder  when  it'll  have  soft  white 
hair  falling  around  it,  the  way  when  I'm  an 
old  woman  there  won't  be  the  like  of  me 
surely  in  the  seven  counties  of  the  east. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  zvith  real  admiration. 

—  You're  a  cute  thinking  woman,  Mary  Doul, 
and  it's  no  lie. 

MARY  DOUL  —  triumphantly.  —  I  am, 
surely,  and  I'm  telling  you  a  beautiful  white- 
haired  woman  is  a  grand  thing  to  see,  for 
I'm  told  when  Kitty  Bawn  was  selling  poteen 
below,  the  young  men  itself  would  never  tire 
to  be  looking  in  her  face. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  taking  off  his  hat  and 
feeling  his  head,  speaking  with  hesitation.  — 
Did  you  think  to  look,  Mary  Doul,  would 
there  be  a  whiteness  the  like  of  that  coming 
upon  me? 

MARY  DOUL  —  with   extreme   contempt. 

—  On  you,  God  help  you!  ...  In  a  short 
while  you'll  have  a  head  on  you  as  bald  as 
an  old  turnip  you'd  see  rolling  round  in  the 
muck.  You  need  never  talk  again  of  your 
fine  looks,  Martin  Doul,  for  the  day  of  that 
talk's  gone  for  ever. 

MARTIN  DOUL.     That's  a  hard  word  to 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  73 

be  saying,  for  I  was  thinking  if  I'd  a  bit  of 
comfort,  the  Hke  of  yourself,  it's  not  far  off 
we'd  be  from  the  good  days  went  before,  and 
that'd  be  a  wonder  surely.  But  I'll  never  rest 
easy,  thinking  you're  a  gray,  beautiful  woman, 
and  myself  a  pitiful  show. 

MARY  DOUL.  I  can't  help  your  looks, 
Martin  Doul.  It  wasn't  myself  made  you 
with  your  rat's  eyes,  and  your  big  ears,  and 
your  griseldy  chin. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  rubs  his  chin  ruefully, 
then  beams  with  delight.  —  There's  one  thing 
you've  forgot,  if  you're  a  cute  thinking  woman 
itself. 

MARY  DOUL.  Your  slouching  feet,  is 
it?  Or  your  hooky  neck,  or  your  two  knees 
is  black  with  knocking  one  on  the  other? 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  with  delighted  scorn. 
—  There's  talking  for  a  cute  woman.  There's 
talking,  surely! 

MARY  DOUL  —  puzzled  at  joy  of  his 
voice.  —  If  you'd  anything  but  lies  to  say 
you'd  be  talking  to  yourself. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  bursting  with  excite- 
ment. —  I've  this  to  say,  Mary  Doul.  I'll  be 
letting  my  beard  grow  in  a  short  while,  a 
beautiful,  long,  white,  silken,  streamy  beard, 
you  w^ouldn't  see  the  like  of  in  the  eastern 


74  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

world.  .  .  .  Ah,  a  white  beard's  a  grand 
thing  on  an  old  man,  a  grand  thing  for  mak- 
ing the  quahty  stop  and  be  stretching  out  their 
hands  with  good  silver  or  gold,  and  a  beard's  a 
thing  you'll  never  have,  so  you  may  be  holding 
your  tongue. 

MARY  DOUL  —  laughing  cheerfully. — 
Well,  we're  a  great  pair,  surely,  and  it's  great 
times  we'll  have  yet,  maybe,  and  great  talking 
before  we  die. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Great  times  from  this 
day,  with  the  help  of  the  Almighty  God,  for  a 
priest  itself  would  believe  the  lies  of  an  old 
man  would  have  a  fine  white  beard  growing 
on  his  chin. 

MARY  DOUL.  There's  the  sound  of  one 
of  them  twittering  yellow  birds  do  be  coming 
in  the  spring-time  from  beyond  the  sea,  and 
there'll  be  a  fine  warmth  now  in  the  sun,  and 
a  sweetness  in  the  air,  the  way  it'll  be  a  grand 
thing  to  be  sitting  here  quiet  and  easy  smell- 
ing the  things  growing  up,  and  budding  from 
the  earth. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  I'm  smelling  the  furze 
a  while  back  sprouting  on  the  hill,  and  if  you'd 
hold  your  tongue  you'd  hear  the  lambs  of 
Grianan,  thousrh  it's  near  drowned  their  cry- 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  75 

ing  is  with  the  full  river  making  noises  in  the 
glen. 

MARY  DOUL  —  listens.  —  The  lambs  is 
bleating,  surely,  and  there's  cocks  and  laying 
hens  making  a  fine  stir  a  mile  off  on  the  face 
of  the  hill.      (She  starts.) 

MARTIN  DOUL.  What's  that  is  sound- 
ing in  the  west? 

[A  faint  sound  of  a  hell  is  heard. 

MARY  DOUL.  It's  not  the  churches,  for 
the  wind's  blowing  from  the  sea. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  zvith  dismay.  —  It's 
the  old  Saint,  I'm  thinking,  ringing  his  bell. 

MARY  DOUL.  The  Lord  protect  us 
from  the  saints  of  God !  (They  listen.)  He's 
coming  this  road,  surely. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  tentatively.—  Will  we 
be  running  off,  Mary  Doul? 

MARY  DOUL.  What  place  would  we 
run? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  There's  the  little  path 
going  up  through  the  sloughs.  .  .  .  If  we 
reached  the  bank  above,  where  the  elders  do 
be  growing,  no  person  would  see  a  sight  of  us, 
if  it  was  a  hundred  yeomen  were  passing 
itself;  but  I'm  afeard  after  the  time  we  were 
with  our  sight  we'll  not  find  our  way  to  it  at 
aU. 


76  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

MARY  DOUL  —  standing  up.  —  You'd 
find  the  way,  surely.  You're  a  grand  man  the 
world  knows  at  finding  your  way  winter  or 
summer,  if  there  was  deep  snow  in  it  itself, 
or  thick  grass  and  leaves,  maybe,  growing 
from  the  earth. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — 'taking  her  hand.— 
Come  a  bit  this  way ;  it's  here  it  begins. 
{They  grope  about  gap.)  There's  a  tree 
pulled  into  the  gap,  or  a  strange  thing  hap- 
pened, since  I  was  passing  it  before. 

MARY  DOUL.  Would  we  have  a  right 
to  be  crawling  in  below  under  the  sticks? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  It's  hard  set  I  am  to 
know  what  would  be  right.  And  isn't  it  a 
poor  thing  to  be  blind  when  you  can't  run  off 
itself,  and  you  fearing  to  see? 

MARY  DOUL  — nearly  in  tears.  — l\!s  a 
poor  thing,  God  help  us,  and  what  good'll  our 
gray  hairs  be  itself,  if  we  have  our  sight,  the 
way  we'll  see  them  falling  each  day,  and  turn- 
ing dirty  in  the  rain? 

[The  hell  sounds  nearby. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  in  despair.  —  He's 
coming  now,  and  we  won't  get  off  from  him 
at  all. 

MARY  DOUL.     Could  we  hide  in  the  bit 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  y'j 

of  a  briar  is  growing  at  the  west  butt  of  the 
church  ? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  We'll  try  that,  surely. 
{He  listens  a  moment.)  Let  you  make  haste; 
I  hear  them  trampling  in  the  wood. 

[They  grope  over  to  church. 

MARY  DOUL.  It's  the  words  of  the 
young  girls  making  a  great  stir  in  the  trees. 
{They  find  the  bush.)  Here's  the  briar  on 
my  left,  Martin;  I'll  go  in  first,  I'm  the  big 
one,  and  I'm  easy  to  see. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  turning  his  head  anx- 
iously.—  It's  easy  heard  you  are ;  and  will  you 
be  holding  your  tongue? 

MARY  DOUL  —  partly  behind  bush. — 
Come  in  now  beside  of  me.  {They  kneel 
down,  still  clearly  visible.)  Do  you  think 
they  can  see  us  now,  Martin  Doul? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  I'm  thinking  they 
can't,  but  I'm  hard  set  to  know;  for  the  lot 
of  them  young  girls,  the  devil  save  them, 
have  sharp,  terrible  eyes,  would  pick  out  a 
poor  man,  I'm  thinking,  and  he  lying  below 
hid  in  his  grave. 

MARY  DOUL.  Let  you  not  be  whisper- 
ing sin,  Martin  Doul,  or  maybe  it's  the  finger 
of  God  they'd  see  pointing  to  ourselves. 

MARTIN  DOUL.     It's  yourself  is  speak- 


78  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

ing  madness,  Mary#  Doul;  haven't  you  heard 
the  Saint  say  it's  the  wicked  do  be  bhnd? 

MARY  DOUL.  If  it  is  you'd  have  a  right 
to  speak  a  big,  terrible  word  would  make  the 
water  not  cure  us  at  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  What  way  would  I 
find  a  big,  terrible  word,  and  I  shook  with  the 
fear;  and  if  I  did  itself,  who'd  know  rightly 
if  it's  good  words  or  bad  would  save  us  this 
day  from  himself? 

MARY  DOUL.  They're  coming.  I  hear 
their  feet  on  the  stones. 

[The  Saint  comes  in  on  right,  with 
Timmy  and  Molly  Byrne  in  holiday 
clothes,  the  others  as  before. 

TIMMY.  I've  heard  tell  Martin  Doul  and 
Mary  Doul  were  seen  this  day  about  on  the 
road,  holy  father,  and  we  were  thinking  you'd 
have  pity  on  them  and  cure  them  again. 

SAINT.  I  would,  maybe,  but  where,  are 
they  at  all  ?  I  have  little  time  left  when  I  have 
the  two  of  you  wed  in  the  church. 

MAT  SIMON  —  at  their  scat.  —  There  are 
the  rushes  they  do  have  lying  round  on  the 
stones.     It's  not  far  off  they'll  be,  surely. 

MOLLY  BYR'NE  — pointing  zvith  aston- 
ishment.—  Look  beyond,  Timmy. 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  79 

[They  all  look  over  and  see  Martin 
Doul. 

TIMMY.  Well,  Martin's  a  lazy  fellow  to 
be  lying  in  there  at  the  height  of  the  day. 
(He  goes  over  shouting.)  Let  you  get  up  out 
of  that.  You  were  near  losing  a  great  chance 
by  your  sleepiness  this  day,  Martin  Doul.  .  .  . 
The  two  of  them's  in  it,  God  help  us  all ! 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  scrambling  up  with 
Mary  Doul. —  What  is  it  you  want,  Timmy, 
that  you  can't  leave  us  in  peace  ? 

TIMMY.  The  Saint's  come  to  marry  the 
two  of  us,  and  I'm  after  speaking  a  word  for 
yourselves,  the  way  he'll  be  curing  you  now; 
for  if  you're  a  foolish  man  itself,  I  do  be  pity- 
ing you,  for  I've  a  kind  heart,  when  I  think 
of  you  sitting  dark  again,  and  you  after  see- 
ing a  while  and  working  for  your  bread. 

[Martin  Doul  takes  Mary  DouVs  hand 
and  tries  to  grope  his  way  off  right: 
he  has  lost  his  hat,  and  they  are  both 
covered  zvith  dust  and  grass  seeds. 

PEOPLE.  You're  going  wrong.  It's  this 
way,  Martin  Doul. 

[They  push  him  over  in  front  of  the 
Saint,  near  centre.  Martin  Dord  and 
Mary  Doid  stand  with  piteous  hang- 
dog dejection. 


8o  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

SAINT.  Let  you  not  be  afeard,  for  there's 
great  pity  with  the  Lord. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  We  aren't  afeard, 
holy  father. 

SAINT.  It's  many  a  time  those  that  are 
cured  with  the  well  of  the  four  beauties  of  God 
lose  their  sight  when  a  time  is  gone,  but  those 
I  cure  a  second  time  go  on  seeing  till  the  hour 
of  death.  (He  takes  ^e  cover  from  his  can.) 
I've  a  few  drops  only  left  of  the  water,  but, 
with  the  help  of  G  ',  i''ll  be  enough  for  the 
two  of  you,  and  let  you  kneel  down  now  upon 
the  road. 

[Martin  Doul  wheels  round  with  Mary 
Doiil  and  tries  to  get  away. 

SAINT.  You  can  kneel  down  here,  I'm 
saying,  we'll  not  trouble  this  time  going  to  the 
church. 

TIMM\  —  turning  Martin  Dom  round, 
angrily. —  Are  you  going  mad  in  your  head, 
Martin  Doul?  It's  here  you're  to  kneel.  Did 
you  not  hear  his  reverence,  and  he  speaking 
to  you  now? 

SAINT.  Kneel  down,  I'm  saying,  the 
ground's  dry  at  your  feet. 

MARTIN  BOUL  — with  distress.— hct 
you  go  on  your  own  way,  holy  father.  We're 
not  calling  you  at  all. 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  8i 

SAINT.  I'm  not  saying  a  word  of  pen- 
ance, or  fasting  itself,  for  I'm  thinking  the 
Lord  has  brought  you  great  teaching  in  the 
blindness  of  your  eyes;  so  you've  no  call  now 
to  be  fearing  me,  but  let  you  kneel  down  till 
I  give  you  your  sight. 

MARTIN  DQUL  —  more  troubled.— 
We're  not  asking  our  sight,  holy  father,  and 
let  you  walk  on  your  own  way,  and  be  fasting, 
or  praying,  or  doing  anything  that  you  will, 
but  leave  us  here  in  our  peace,  at  the  crossing 
of  the  roads,  for  it's  best  we  are  this  way,  and 
we're  not  asking  to  see. 

SAINT  —  to  the  People. —  Is  his  mind 
gone  that  he's  no  wish  to  be  cured  this  day, 
or  to  be  living  or  working,  or  looking  on  the 
wonders  of  the  world? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  It's  wonders  enough  I 
seen  in  a  short  space  for  the  life  of  one  man 
only. 

SAl'NT  —  sez'erely. —  I  never  heard  tell  of 
any  person  wouldn't  have  great  joy  to  be 
looking  on  the  earth,  and  the  image  of  thf 
Lord  thrown  upon  men. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  raising  his  voice.— 
Them  is  great  sights,  holy  father.  .  .  .  What 
was  it  I  seen  when  I  first  opened  my  eyes  but 


82  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

your  own  bleeding  feet,  and  they  cut  with  the 
stones?  That  was  a  great  sight,  maybe,  of 
the  image  of  God.  .  .  .  And  what  was  it  I 
seen  my  last  day  but  the  villainy  of  hell  look- 
ing out  from  the  eyes  of  the  girl  you're  com- 
ing to  marry  —  the  Lord  forgive  you  —  with 
Timmy  the  smith.  That  was  a  great  sight, 
maybe.  And  wasn't  it  great  sights  I  seen  on 
the  roads  when  the  north  winds  would  be 
driving,  and  the  skies  would  be  harsh,  till 
you'd  see  the  horses  and  the  asses,  and  the 
dogs  itself,  maybe,  with  their  heads  hanging, 
and  they  closing  their  eyes . 

SAINT.  And  did  you  never  hear  tell  of 
the  summer,  and  the  fine  spring,  and  the 
places  where  the  holy  men  of  Ireland  have 
built  up  churches  to  the  Lord?  No  man  isn't 
a  madman,  I'm  thinking,  would  be  talking  the 
like  of  that,  and  wishing  to  be  closed  up  and 
seeing  no  sight  of  the  grand  glittering  seas, 
and  the  furze  that  is  opening  above,  and  will 
soon  have  the  hills  shining  as  if  it  was  fine 
creels  of  gold  they  were,  rising  to  the  sky. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Is  it  talking  now  you 
are  of  Knock  and  Ballavore?  Ah,  it's  our- 
selves had  finer  sights  than  the  like  of  them, 
I'm  telling  you,  when  we  were  sitting  a  while 
back  hearing  the  birds  and  bees  humming  in 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  83 

every  weed  of  the  ditch,  or  when  we'd  be 
smelHng  the  sweet,  beautiful  smell  does  ^be 
rising  in  the  warm  nights,  when  you  do  hear 
the  swift  flying  things  racing  in  the  air,  till 
w^'d  be  looking  up  in  our  own  minds  into  a 
grand  sky,  and  seeing  lakes,  and  big  rivers, 
and  fine  hills  for  taking  the  plough. 

SAINT  — to  People.— There's  little  use 
talking  with  the  like  of  him. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  It's  lazy  he  is,  holy 
father,  and  not  wanting  to  work;  for  a  while 
before  you  had  him  cured  he  was  always  talk- 
ing, and  wishing,  and  longing  for  his  sight. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — turning  on  her.— I 
was  longing,  surely,  for  sight;  but  I  seen  my 
fill  in  a  short  while  with  the  look  of  my  wife, 
and  the  look  of  yourself,  Molly  Byrne,  when 
you'd  the  queer  wicked  grin  in  your  eyes  you 
do  have  the  time  you're  making  game  with  a 
man. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  Let  you  not  mind  him, 
holy  father;  for  it's  bad  things  he  was  saying 
to  me  a  while  back  —  bad  things  for  a  married 
man,  your  reverence  —  and  you'd  do  right 
surely  to  leave  him  in  darkness,  if  it's  that  is 
best  fitting  the  villainy  of  his  heart. 

TIMMY  —  to  Saint. —  Would  you  cure 
Mary  Doul,  your  reverence,  who  is  a  quiet 


84  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

poor  woman,  never  did  hurt  to  any,  or  said 
a  hard  word,  saving  only  when  she'd  be  vexed 
with  himself,  or  with  young  girls  would  be 
making  game  of  her  below? 

SAINT  —  to  Mary  Doiil — If  you  have 
any  sense,  I\Iary,  kneel  down  at  my  feet,  and 
I'll  bring  the  sight  again  into  your  eyes. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — mor^  defiantly.— 
You  will  not,  holy  father.  Would  you  have 
her  looking  on  me,  and  saying  hard  words  to 
me,  till  the  hour  of  death? 

SAINT  —  severely. —  If  she's  wanting  her 
sight  I  wouldn't  have  the  like  of  you  stop  her 
at  all.  {To  Mary  Doul.)  Kneel  down,  I'm 
saying. 

MARY  DOUl^  —  doubtfully.— "Ltt  us  be 
as  we  are,  holy  father,  and  then  we'll  be 
known  again  in  a  short  while  as  the  people  is 
happy  and  blind,  and  be  having  an  easy  time, 
with  no  trouble  to  live,  and  we  getting  half- 
pence on  the  road. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  Let  you  not  be  a  rav- 
ing fool,  Mary  Doul.  Kneel  down  now,  and 
let  him  give  you  your  sight,  and  himself  can 
be  sitting  here  if  he  likes  it  best,  and  taking 
halfpence  on  the  road. 

TIMMY.  That's  the  truth,  Mary;  and  if 
it's  choosing  a  wilful  blindness  you  are,  I'm 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  85 

thinking  there  isn't  anyone  in  this  place  will 
ever  be  giving  you  a  hand's  turn  or  a  hap'orth 
of  meal,  or  be  doing  the  little  things  you  need 
to  keep  you  at  all  living  in  the  world. 

MAT  SIMON.  If  you  had  your  sight, 
Mary,  you  could  be  walking  up  for  him  and 
down  with  him,  and  be  stitching  his  clothes, 
and  keeping  a  watch  on  him  day  and  night 
the  way  no  other  woman  would  come  near 
him  at  all. 

MARY  DOUL  — M/  persuaded.— Th3.t*s 

the  truth,  maybe . 

SAINT.  Kneel  down  now,  I'm  saying, 
for  it's  in  haste  I  am  to  be  going  on  with  the 
marriage  and  be  walking  my  own  way  before 
the  fall  of  night. 

THE  PEOPLE.  Kneel  down,  Mary! 
Kneel  down  when  you're  bid  by  the  Saint ! 

MARY  DOUL  —  looking  uneasily  towards 
Martin  Doul —  Maybe  it's  right  they  are,  and 
I  will  if  you  wish  it,  holy  father. 

[She  kneels  down.  The  Saint  takes  off 
his  hat  and  gives  it  to  some  one  near 
him.  All  the  men  take  off  their  hats^ 
He  goes  forward  a  step  to  take  Martin 
Doul's  hand  away  from  Mary  Doid. 
SAINT  —  to  Martin  Doul — Go  aside 
now;  we're  not  wanting  you  here. 


86  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

MARTIN  DOUL  — pushes  him  away 
roughly,  and  stands  with  his  left  hand  on 
Mary  Doul's  shoulder. —  Keep  off  yourself, 
holy  father,  and  let  you  not  be  taking  my  rest 
from  me  in  the  darkness  of  my  wife.  .  .  . 
What  call  has  the  like  of  you  to  be  coming 
between  married  people  —  that  you're  not 
understanding  at  all  —  and  be  making  a  great 
mess  with  the  holy  water  you  have,  and  the 
length  of  your  prayers?  Go  on  now,  I'm 
saying,  and  leave  us  here  on  the  road. 

SAINT.  If  it  was  a  seeing  man  I  heard 
talking  to  me  the  like  of  that  I'd  put  a  black 
curse  on  him  would  weigh  down  his  soul  till 
it'd  be  falling  to  hell;  but  you're  a  poor  blind 
sinner,  God  forgive  you,  and  I  don't  mind 
you  at  all.  {He  raises  his  can.)  Go  aside 
now  till  I  give  the  blessing  to  your  wife,  and 
if  you  won't  go  with  your  own  will,  there 
are  those  standing  by  will  make  you,  surely. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  pulling  Mary  Doid.— 
Come  along  now,  and  don't  mind  him  at  all. 

SAINT  —  imperiously,  to  the  People. — 
Let  you  take  that  man  and  drive  him  down 
upon  the  road. 

[Some  men  seise  Martin  Doul. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  struggling  and  shout- 
ing.—  Make  them  leave  me  go,  holy  father! 


The  Well  of  the  Saints  8y 

Make  them  leave  me  go,  I'm  saying,  and  you 
may  cure  her  this  day,  or  do  anything  that 
you  will. 

SAINT  —  to  People.—  Let  him  be 

Let  him  be  if  his  sense  is  come  to  him  at  all. 

MARTIN  DOIJI.  — shakes  himself  loose, 
feels  for  Mary  Doul,  sinking  his  voice  to  a 
plausible  whine. —  You  may  cure  herself, 
surely,  holy  father;  I  wouldn't  stop  you  at  all 
—  and  it's  great  joy  she'll  have  looking  on 
your  face  —  but  let  you  cure  myself  along 
with  her,  the  way  I'll  see  when  it's  lies  she's 
telling,  and  be  looking  out  day  and  night  upon 
the  holy  men  of  God. 

[He  kneels  down  a  little  before  Mary 
DouL 

SAINT  —  speaking  half  to  the  People. — 
Men  who  are  dark  a  long  while  and  thinking 
over  queer  thoughts  in  their  heads,  aren't  the 
like  of  simple  men,  who  do  be  working  every 
day,  and  praying,  and  living  like  ourselves; 
so  if  he  has  found  a  right  mind  at  the  last 
minute  itself,  I'll  cure  him,  if  the  Lord  will, 
and  not  be  thinking  of  the  hard,  foolish 
words  he's  after  saying  this  day  to  us  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  listening  eagerly.— 
I'm  waiting  now,  holy  father. 

SAINT  —  with  can  in  his  hand,  close  to 


88  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

Martin  Doitl. —  With  the  power  of  the  water 
from  the  grave  of  the  four  beauties  of  God, 
with  the  power  ol  this  water,  I'm  saying,  that 

I  put  upon  your  eyes . 

[He  raises  can. 
MARTIN  DOUL  —  with  a  sudden  move- 
ment strikes  the  can  from  the  Sainfs  hand 
and  sends  it  rocketing  across  stage.  He  stands 
up;  People  murmur  loudly, —  If  I'm  a  poor 
dark  sinner  I've  sharp  ears,  God  help  me,  and 
have  left  you  with  a  big  head  on  you  and 
it's  well  I  heard  the  little  splash  of  the  water 
you  had  there  in  the  can.  Go  on  now,  holy 
father,  for  if  you're  a  fine  Saint  itself,  it's 
more  sense  is  in  a  blind  man,  and  more  power 
maybe  than  you're  thinking  at  all.  Let  you 
walk  on  now  with  your  worn  feet,  and  your 
welted  knees,  and  your  fasting,  holy  ways 
a  thin  pitiful  arm.  {The  Saint  looks  at 
him  for  a  moment  severely,  then  turns  away 
and  picks  up  his  can.  He  pulls  Mary  Doul 
up.)  For  if  it's  a  right  some  of  you  have  to 
be  working  and  sweating  the  like  of  Timmy 
the  smith,  and  a  right  some  of  you  have  to 
be  fasting  and  praying  and  talking  holy  talk 
the  like  of  yourself,  I'm  thinking  it's  a  good 
right  ourselves  have  to  be  sitting  blind,  hear- 
ing a  soft  wind  turnin.2f  round  the  little  leaves 
of  the  spring  and  feeling  the  sun,  and  we  not 


The  Well  of  the  SXiNtS  ^ ''  '   89 

tormenting  our  souls  with  the  sight  of  the 
gray  days,  and  the  holy  men,  and  the  dirty 
feet  is  trampling  the  world. 

[He  gropes  towards  his  stone  with  Mary 
Doul. 

MAT  SIMON.  It'd  be  an  unlucky  fearful 
thing,  Fm  thinking,  to  have  the  like  of  that 
man  living  near  us  at  all  in  the  townland  of 
Grianan.  Wouldn't  he  bring  down  a  curse 
upon  us,  holy  father,  from  the  heavens  of 
God? 

SAINT  —  tying  his  girdle.  —  God  has 
great  mercy,  but  great  wrath  for  them  that 
sin. 

THE  PEOPLE.  Go  on  now,  Martin 
Doul.  Go  on  from  this  place.  Let  you  not 
be  bringing  great  storms  or  droughts  on  us 
maybe  from  the  power  of  the  Lord. 

[Some  of  them  throw  things  at  him, 

MARTIN  T>0\]1.  —  turning  round  de- 
fiantly and  picking  up  a  stone.  —  Keep  off 
now,  the  yelping  lot  of  you,  or  it's  more  than 
one  maybe  will  get  a  bloody  head  on  him  with 
the  pitch  of  my  stone.  Keep  off  now,  and  let 
you  not  be  afeard;  for  we're  going  on  the 
two  of  us  to  the  towns  of  the  south,  where 
the  people  will  have  kind  voices  maybe,  and 
we  won't  know  their  bad  looks  or  their 
villainy  at  all.     {He  takes  Mary  DouVs  hand 


90  The  Well  of  the  Saints 

again.)  Come  along  now  and  we'll  be  walk- 
ing to  the  south,  for  we've  seen  too  much  of 
everyone  in  this  place,  and  it's  small  joy  we'd 
have  living  near  them,  or  hearing  the  lies 
they  do  be  telling  from  the  gray  of  dawn  till 
the  night. 

MARY  DOUL  —  despondingly.—  That's 
the  truth,  surely;  and  we'd  have  a  right  to  be 
gone,  if  it's  a  long  way  itself,  as  I've  heard 
them  say,  where  you  do  have  to  be  walking 
with  a  slough  of  wet  on  the  one  side  and  a 
slough  of  wet  on  the  other,  and  you  going 
a  stony  path  with  a  north  wind  blowing  be- 
hind. [They  go  out. 

TIMMY.  There's  a  power  of  deep  rivers 
with  floods  in  them  where  you  do  have  to 
be  lepping  the  stones  and  you  going  to  the 
south,  so  I'm  thinking  the  two  of  them  will 
be  drowned  together  in  a  short  while,  surely. 

SAINT.  They  have  chosen  their  lot,  and 
the  Lord  have  mercy  on  their  souls.  (He 
rings  his  bell.)  And  let  the  two  of  you  come 
up  now  into  the  church,  Molly  Byrne  and 
Timmy  the  smith,  till  I  make  your  marriage 
and  put  my  blessing  on  you  all. 

[He  turns  to  the  church;  procession 
forms,  and  the  curtain  comes  down, 
as  they  go  slowly  into  the  church. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below  or 
on  the  date  to  which  renewS  ' 

^^enewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recaU 


21A-50TO-8 '61 
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.General  Library 

University  of  California 

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